


Just Dreaming

by winterkill



Series: Thirsty [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Brienne is a succubus, F/M, I can make these jokes all night, Kinda, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, Olenna runs a high-end magic bordello okay, Sex Magic, Sex Work, Smut, also Tyrion learns that his eyes are bigger than his stamina, and Jaime is her sexy snack bar, or a Capri Sun, the succubus sequel you didn't need but are getting anyway, this is really fluffy soft garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26983708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: "Maybe it’d be easier to show you?”Brienne's joke comes across clearly, but having her in his dreams,intentionally,tangles Jaime up in a ribbon of desire. The unbidden dream made him bold enough to share it with her.What if Brienne did it on purpose?
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Thirsty [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969963
Comments: 130
Kudos: 253





	1. I & II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday, so here's a gift for all of you! It didn't take much to convince me this universe needed another installment. If you haven't read Thirsty first, this won't make a lot of sense.
> 
> Title comes from Carly Rae Jepsen's "Automatically in Love," which I listened to on loop while writing this.
> 
> I hope you enjoy more of succubus!Brienne!

**I.**

Sometimes, Jaime is convinced his brother isn’t a man but a few bad ideas stacked together wearing a trenchcoat. The fact that so many dubious suggestions and plans can exist in one person is frankly baffling. Worse yet, Jaime is intermittently susceptible to his brother’s influence, _especially_ if he has a drink or two in him.

“You tell me my ideas are _shit,”_ Tyrion jabs his finger in Jaime’s general direction as he shouts, “but who introduced your abnormally tall girlfriend?”

“You can’t take credit for that,” Jaime says, also a bit too loud. “You told me to be gross to three women _half my age_ at a bar. Ironically, my disaster flirting _kept_ me from getting a martini in the face.”

 _“Ha!_ I’d pay money to see that. What if I gave Margaery a fifty-dragon note. Do you think she’d reenact it for me?”

“Only if she can throw the drink at _you.”_

Tyrion is _quite_ drunk tonight, teetering perilously on a bar stool in his kitchen. His feet don’t reach the closest rung, and if he slumps off the stool he’s going to crack his head on the counter and die.

“I’d let Margaery do _whatever_ she wanted, whenever she wanted.”

Jaime takes a swig of his beer and rolls his eyes, “Margaery would eat you alive and spit out your bones, and it would be fucking _hilarious.”_

“Exactly _how_ long have you and Brienne been fucking?”

Tyrion is trying to divert the conversation, and Jaime lets him. The fact that Tyrion puts it like that makes Jaime want to lob the empty beer bottle on the coffee table at his brother’s head. “We’ve been _dating_ for a month.”

“Is that what they call it in middle school?” Tyrion laughs, “Anyway, you’re still upright and infuriatingly handsome; if you can handle being a juicebox for a succubus, I bet I could do better.”

Jaime buries his face in his hands and groans. He would’ve _never_ told Tyrion about Brienne and Margaery, but it came up organically when they’d all gone out one night. Margaery declared it proudly, and Brienne shyly confirmed it in solidarity. Jaime certainly wasn’t embarrassed of Brienne, but he knew Tyrion like the back of his hand. 

_“Better?_ And what would that look like, exactly?”

Tyrion grins salaciously, _“Well,_ do Brienne and Margaery have any succubus friends? Maybe a couple of them?”

“Let me just make sure I’m following,” he sits up straighter on the couch, “Are you suggesting a _threesome?”_

“Isn’t two _always_ better than one?”

“... _No.”_ Tyrion will think Jaime’s being prudish, romantic, or both, but that’s not it. It’s that Jaime can _feel_ how measured Brienne is, but he can also feel when her composure slips and the dangerous path it leads down. “A succubus can _kill you._ Is that how you want your corpse found?”

“Sandwiched between two succubi,” Tyrion grins in a way that makes Jaime _very_ uncomfortable. “That’d make for one _hell_ of an obituary. Imagine Father reading it?”

That’s an amusing enough image that Jaime snorts, “I’ll speak at your funeral: ’my brother died doing what he loved.’ Text Margaery and ask how she thinks you’d fare.”

He was wary of bringing Tyrion around Brienne and her friends. His brother has a habit of saying things that make Jaime want to crawl under the table. It’s a tall order to embarrass Jaime, but Tyrion knows exactly what buttons to push. Jaime’s social circle isn’t large--there’s Addam, who travels too much for work, and Bronn, but he’s more Tyrion’s speed than Jaime’s. And by ‘Tyrion’s speed,’ Jaime means women and booze and maybe contraband.

If Jaime were Margaery, he wouldn’t have given Tyrion his number. Margaery had, though, so a few moments after Tyrion sends the text, his phone chimes an annoyingly grating tune. Tyrion reads the text and starts laughing.

“What did she say?”

“I quote: ‘I know a place, but you won’t like the price or the contents of the liability waiver.’” Tyrion is still laughing, “Do you think she’s hyperbolizing?”

Deadpan, Jaime replies, “No, she’s not.”

* * *

Margaery gives Jaime _a lot_ of knowing smirks. The one after the first night he spent with Brienne was the worst because she leaned close and whispered, “I _heard_ you two had a good time.”

The emphasis on the word _heard_ made a flush crawl up Jaime’s neck. In the thick of it, he hadn’t given a single fuck. A marching band could’ve burst through Brienne’s door, and his attention wouldn’t have wavered. It wouldn’t have woken him up afterwards, either.

He’s always been a light sleeper, but somehow he thought that was about to change.

“Sorry,” he had mumbled, “It was, um--”

Margaery giggled before he could try and articulate the ways Brienne had blown his mind. “I know _exactly_ how it was. There were lots of good vibes all around.”

 _Of course she could tell._ Margaery was a succubus, too--she looked in his direction and probably saw Brienne’s name flashing above his head in neon lights or whatever it was that a succubus saw. Sansa probably could tell, too, in her own way. The whole apartment was steeped in something Jaime couldn’t comprehend. 

_Am I turning into Tyrion?_ Maybe it was the high of Brienne lingering in his system, but there was one thing Jaime _was_ certain about. “You know what, it was fucking _mindblowing.”_

Margaery had laughed again and replied, “That’s just Brienne.”

After that, Jaime discovered he got along _embarrassingly_ well with Margaery and Sansa. He’s certain they’re not pandering to him for Brienne’s sake, either. If Margaery didn’t approve of him, he’d have gotten an earful weeks ago. Margaery teased Brienne in equal measure; a sweet blush always spread over her cheeks, and Jaime started to look forward to Margaery’s gentle jokes.

Sansa had this wise-beyond-her-years quality that, absurdly, makes Jaime want to ask her for advice. He isn’t egotistical enough to think that a woman half his age couldn’t have any valuable insight. Two weeks ago, Sansa found him sitting on Brienne’s couch and placed her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes had fallen shut for a moment.

“I’m just a boring human,” he finally whispered, “Not a drop of magic in my immediate family.” Lannisters used to claim pure-human lineage as some sort of moral superiority. Someone a century ago had spoiled it. Even still, no one would consider the Lannisters a magically-inclined family.

Sansa had opened her eyes--a lighter blue than Brienne’s but no less welcoming. “You’re far from boring, Jaime. I’m just curious about something.”

“Oh?”

“Brienne,” Sansa said, “You feel like her--just around the edges. I wondered what it was like.”

Jaime doesn’t _quite_ understand how Sansa’s ability works; he only knows that Brienne’s touch lingers long after they’ve parted. “Does Margaery not…?”

Despite Tyrion’s gross jokes about Margaery and Sansa’s sex life, Jaime does his best _not_ to think about it. The one time Tyrion had mentioned, jokingly, asking them to let him watch, Jaime had punched him so hard in the arm that Tyrion slid across the vinyl-coated booth at the restaurant where they were eating.

Sansa had pressed her palm to her chest, like that’s where Margaery remained. “She does. It’s like...an instinct? I always want to go to her. I can’t identify magic in myself, and you’re the only other person to check.”

“Brienne told me it’s meant to keep me...wanting her.”

“Margaery said the same,” Sansa touches his shoulder again, a friendly pat this time, “Do you feel like...without it that you wouldn’t want…?”

“No. Do you?”

“Not at all.”

* * *

Jaime starts inviting Brienne over to his apartment.

He wants to be considerate of Margaery and Sansa, but he also wants to get some genuine privacy. It’s one thing to be heard; it’s another thing entirely to be _sensed._ There’s some practical concerns, too--Jaime’s bed is larger, and Arthur clearly misses his company. He swirled around Brienne’s ankles the first time they met and crawled into her lap almost immediately. Brienne hovered her hand over him for a moment, as though she wasn’t sure how to pet a cat, until Arthur nudged her hand with his head.

Arthur proved as desperate for Brienne’s attention and affection as Jaime was, and Brienne seemed equally flummoxed. The barest hint of a flush grew on her cheeks as she stroked the orange fur on his back.

“Is my cat making you blush?” Jaime had teased.

Brienne smiled softly and replied, “Don’t they say pets are like their owners?”

“Are you saying I’m chatty and a whore for attention?”

“Your words,” she replied, “not mine.”

The thing is, Brienne wasn’t wrong, and it’s a bit of a change for Jaime. He doesn’t think any of his past relationships would describe him as cold, and he certainly wasn’t the type to run away in the middle of the night, but that doesn’t mean he was open. The loquaciousness, the jokes, they're Jaime windmilling his arms to keep people at a distance. Brienne shot straight through all bullshit Jaime wrapped himself in, and being free of it is liberating.

Brienne gets a version of him he's never shown to anyone, and it's a version Jaime is starting to be proud of. It's the Jaime she trusted, the one who Brienne knows has faith in her in return. From the moment she kissed him, Jaime knew down to his very bones that this was how they were supposed to be.

The Brienne Jaime sees in return generous and gentle and not _nearly_ revealing enough about her needs and wants. She takes what she needs from, but beyond the occasional direction uttered in the throes of it, Jaime has learned what Brienne likes through observation alone. His data is incomplete, too, because after a certain point, Brienne renders him utterly incoherent _every_ time. It’s the best sex Jaime’s ever had, but the potential for pillow talk leaves something to be desired, in that Jaime’s asleep for an hour and wakes to Brienne fretting over him.

Jaime _adores_ her post-coital fretting--he’s almost ashamed to admit how much the doting means to him.

He ends up talking to Sansa, which happens in an increasing regularity over the past few weeks. Jaime doesn’t feel _too_ weird about it; Sansa is going through a similar experience, and she gives solid advice, so they get coffee from time to time.

“You and Margaery,” Jaime starts slowly, an impossible hope that Sansa might intuit the rest. “When you’re...together, does she...ask for things?”

“...Things?”

Jaime can’t tell if Sansa is legitimately unclear, or if she’s trolling him. He steels himself and barrels ahead, “When we’re together, Brienne doesn’t ask for much. I wondered...I didn’t know if it’s just her, or if it’s because she peaks inside my head and doesn’t think she needs to talk to me.”

“Margaery is...” Sansa sips her drink through the straw like she’s stalling, and Jaime feels a bit bad for asking. “She isn’t shy about what she wants. Not in a bad way--we just...we communicate well.”

“There’s no way you _children_ are better at this than me.” He doesn’t care how churlish he sounds.

“And yet, here you are, asking this _child_ for advice.”

“The irony isn’t lost on me,” Jaime mumbles, “I’ll take it, though, if you’ve any to dispense.”

Sansa giggles, and it’s _absolutely_ at his expense. “Have you considered that Brienne might think she’s already asking too much from you?”

What Sansa is referring to can remain unsaid between them.

“Brienne hasn’t asked for anything I wouldn’t give freely,” Jaime says, “Don’t you feel that way, too?”

“I do, but even Margaery likes to be reminded sometimes.”

* * *

It takes a couple weeks for the right circumstances to align to talk to Brienne. Sometimes, Jaime thinks the moment is right, but then Brienne is kissing him, which is something _every_ moment is right for. Jaime tells himself he’ll recall it, _after,_ but the blinding totality of the way they come together razes the thought from his mind. Other times, Brienne comes home from school or her practicum tired and frustrated, and Jaime hasn’t the heart to bring up something weighty.

Sansa gives him dual raised eyebrows every time Jaime gives her an excuse.

Tonight, _finally,_ seems like a good moment. Jaime will _make_ it a good moment. Brienne spent the evening studying at her desk, an activity he enjoys watching. It’s been nearly two decades since Jaime set foot in a classroom, but he can’t recall _ever_ studying with a tenth of the diligence Brienne has. The cluttered desk on the first night she invited him home was an anomaly; Brienne color-codes her notes and sets timers for study breaks.

When Brienne’s last phone timer starts chiming, she shuts it off and turns in her desk chair. “You’re sure you’re not bored?”

“Nope.” Jaime spent the last two hours sprawled on Brienne’s bed texting Tyrion and playing an Arthur Dayne adventure game on his phone. It was diametrically opposed to Brienne’s productivity. “I just like being in the same room as you.”

The mattress dips when Brienne sits. When she’s close, Jaime itches to touch her, an instinct crawling up from some primordial depth. It whispers to Jaime that he’s meant to go to her, and it’s like trying to resist gravity.

“It’s nice,” she replies, “to have company.”

“I’m good company,” Jaime replies; she usually thinks his feigned ego is funny.

Brienne smiles, sweet and warm and shy. “You are.”

“I...wanted to talk to you about something.”

Her smile falters a bit, “Okay.” 

“We don’t...talk that much, and there’s a lot that doesn’t need said. I just...I _feel_ it, and I know you do, too.” The more words that pour out of his mouth, the more Jaime realizes why he usually kisses Brienne and lets that speak for him. “I wanted to make sure you knew that you can ask me for things.”

“You do so much--”

Jaime halts Brienne with the touch of his fingers against her lips. “We fuck, I nap, and then you take care of me. I don’t _do_ anything special. I’m...envious that you can crack my head open like an egg and read my thoughts.”

Brienne curls her fingers around his wrist, “I can’t read your mind. The things I see sense are pretty useless.”

“They’re not,” he says, “I wish I could know that part of you just by looking. ”

“I’m used to pretending to be something else, but you...you want _me._ You haven’t wavered since the first night. It’s addicting, and I...I’m afraid I’ll take too much, or I’ll make you want something you don’t actually want.” Brienne’s voice drops to a whisper at the end.

“We reach a point, sometimes, where I’m not sure I could tell you no.” 

Brienne looks stricken at the concept, and she drops his hand like it scalded her. “I’ve felt it, not every time, but _enough._ It’s what’s _supposed_ to happen, and I don’t like it.”’

“I do.” The admission stirs something in Jaime that he doesn’t want to examine up close. “I mean, I don’t _only_ like that, but I don’t look back on those moments and feel like you took advantage of me.”

“What if I _made_ you feel comfortable? What if what you want is just a reflection of what _I_ long for?”

Jaime navigates the bit of distance between them and kisses Brienne. She softens to the gesture, and within a few breaths, Jaime feels the buildup of static between them, humming against his skin. “A mirror is a reflection,” he whispers, “You give me a more intense version of what I already wanted. I’m a simple man, Brienne, so I _promise_ you’re thinking about it much harder than I am.”

“You never worry, do you?”

“Not about you.” He lets his head fall forward to land on Brienne’s shoulder. “I could beg you for something you _know_ I wouldn’t enjoy, and you wouldn’t do it.”

Brienne encircles her arms around him, “I’d never knowingly take advantage of you.”

“We could talk about it, make sure our interests align.” She’s only been holding him for seconds, but, already, Jaime finds himself lulled by her touch. Recoiling from the feeling Brienne gives him ever occurred to him. _Maybe I lack a sense of self-preservation?_

“Sounds mortifying, but sure. Maybe it’d be easier to _show_ you?” 

The joke comes across clearly, but having Brienne in his dreams, _intentionally,_ tangles Jaime up in a ribbon of desire. The unbidden dream made him bold enough to share it with her. _What if Brienne did it on purpose?_

“It’s not a substitute for a healthy discussion.” Jaime pauses, and Brienne grows tense around him. “I’ll go first. I want to dream of you again.”

**II.**

It was Margaery’s grandmother, Olenna, who first gave Brienne the idea to feed on dreams.

Brienne had only known Margaery a month or so when she insisted Brienne meet her grandmother. Their friendship was in its infancy, and Brienne felt hulking and awkward. There was even a rather unflattering coil of jealousy in Brienne’s stomach for how _effortless_ Margaery made being a succubus. 

Any man _or_ woman would take a single look at Margaery and fall at her feet. They would bare their neck to her, literally _and_ metaphorically. She was coy, seductive, and knew all the right things to say. It’s not even really Margaery’s beauty Brienne envies--just that she has the tools and the disposition to do what she needs to do. If Brienne were like Margaery, even a smidge, she wouldn’t have spent the last half-decade with a persistent headache between her eyes. She’d grown used to the hunger--it was almost more like a weariness, as if she was stretched too thin. Like everything, it was manageable.

Besides, it was hard to be sour toward Margaery when she quickly proved to be the most genuine friend Brienne ever had.

A few weeks after they first met, Margary said to Brienne, “You should come hunting with me. I know lots of good spots, and the men there are all looking for a hook-up anyway.”

“I...uh,” Brienne remembered flushing quite furiously as she tried to explain herself. “Thank you, for the offer, but I don’t usually--”

“You like women?” Margaery guessed. “Me too. I know a different spot--”

The situation was spiraling, and Brienne hadn’t known what to do, so she blurted, “I don’t _like_ it. I can’t...I can’t seduce anyone, and the few times I’ve slept with someone, it’s just...not enough.”

Margaery had looked at her, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “Are you afraid they’ll notice? One or two rounds should be enough. There’s _a lot_ of energy in an orgasm. Most men don’t notice if you double dip or go at it a bit too hard. They sleep like the dead after either way. Women can go for longer, but they tend to notice sooner.”

Brienne thought of Hyle, who collapsed on top of her and snored like a freight train. She had to shove him off her. The couple months they’d been together hadn’t been great. She only agreed to go out with him because he kept asking and because she was so hungry it was getting hard to ignore. Hyle was like chain restaurant food off an interstate exit. It did the job, for a bit, but Brienne never would’ve chosen it had there been options.

He turned out to be an asshole, anyway, as Brienne would confide to Margaery in the coming weeks.

In the end, she decided to say to Margaery, “I’d like to get to know the person, first.”

“Inefficient, but okay,” she had replied. “When was the last time you fed?”

“A...A couple months?” She ended things with Hyle, but time blurred together and she felt worse if she counted.

“Brienne,” Margaery sounded aghast, “you’re _hangry.’_

“....What?”

“Hungry and angry. Come with me--grandmother will know a way to sort this out.”

* * *

Brienne didn’t know the best word to describe the type of establishment Olenna Tyrell ran. The word _brothel_ felt horribly outdated and sounded like something best relegated to a history book. She lobbed a couple other words around in her mind, but none of them felt like the right moniker.

What Brienne _did_ know was that from her first step into Rose and Thorn, she was hit by a tidal wave of licentious energy and made supremely uncomfortable by it. Worse yet, it felt _good,_ and perhaps Margaery had a point about her hanger.

Margaery clearly had no such qualms; she wrapped her fingers around Brienne’s wrist and led her past a reception desk with a quick wave at the woman seated behind it. 

“That’s Pia,” Margaery explained, “she does _everything_ around here.”

The decor was opulent and ostentatious, dark jewel tones and heavy, ornate fabrics. The space looked like a time capsule of a house over a century ago. Brienne couldn’t deny that it suited the atmosphere.

“It feels _great_ here, doesn’t it? Way better than a nightclub.”

Brienne wasn’t sure she agreed, so she mumbled, “It’s...something,” as Margaery led her along the corridor. She half expected to see people engaged in sexual acts, but all the doors were discreetly closed. That, of course, didn’t stop Brienne from _feeling_ it. Margaery was _definitely_ right about her appetite.

They stopped at a door, and Margaery let go of her hand. “This is Grandmother’s office.”

“Margaery, is this...legal?”

“Of course,” she chirped, “Registered business complete with regulations and employee benefits.”

There wasn’t time to process that before Margaery knocked, opened the door, and pushed Brienne through. The space looked much more like a grandmother’s sitting room than Brienne expected; although, the color palette was similar to the hallway. Aside from the heavy, wooden desk, there was a sitting area with tufted couches covered in a sapphire blue velvet. The room felt insulated from the fervor in the hall. 

_Warding._ It was a bit of a loss but also a relief.

“Grandmother,” Margaery called out, and the grey-haired woman at the desk turned. She had the same clever smile Margaery so often wore but was at least a head shorter.

“I thought you’d forgotten about me,” Olenna said as she rose from the desk. “It’s been so long since you visited.”

Margaery bent down and kissed her grandmother on her wrinkled cheek. “I’ve been busy. I brought a friend this time, though. Brienne’s like us, so I think you can help her.”

Brienne wouldn’t admit it aloud, but Olenna sizing her up was one of the most tense moments of her life. It rivaled applying to graduate school, losing her virginity, _and_ Ronnet telling the entire school she was a succubus. There was something about Olenna’s gaze that was so keen, so _exposing,_ that Brienne wanted to run.

“You’re an interesting succubus,” Olenna finally said, “Come sit and let’s talk.”

Worse things had been said about her, so Brienne didn’t flinch. _Interesting_ could even be a compliment from the right person. Brienne sat on one of the tufted chairs, back stiff as a board, as Olenna asked if Margaery would be a dear and make coffee. The sound of the espresso machine filled the room as Olenna sat opposite her.

“So, my granddaughter says you require my help?”

“Um, Margaery seems to think I do, but I’m not sure--” Brienne prided herself on being self-sufficient. It was one of the things she hated most about being a succubus. She needed something from another person, and the only way to get it was to be dishonest or make herself known in a way she didn’t enjoy.

Olenna pulled a tin of butter cookies off the side table and opened them. “You seem a bit peckish, girl, but I’m not sure cookies are what you need.”

Brienne takes one because she likes cookies and stuffing her face with one means she doesn’t have to reply immediately. Butter cookies were almost as good as oatmeal raisin. 

“Brienne doesn’t enjoy, um...hunting,” Margaery called out helpfully from across the room. Brienne appreciated the less explicit phrasing; it’d be equally likely for Margaery to say _Brienne doesn’t like seducing and fucking strangers._

“There are clientele who’d request you,” Olenna studied her again, “The money’s good, and we vet the clients aggressively.”

“No, I--” Margaery’s delicacy now meant Brienne had to be _extremely_ frank. “I don’t want to have sex with strangers.”

“That makes things hard for you, my dear.”

Brienne bit her tongue to stop from replying _don’t I fucking know it._

Margaery takes that moment to come join them bearing a tray of mugs. “Grandmother, I was wondering if you had any _other_ ideas for Brienne.”

What followed was a mortifying conversation where Olenna asked Brienne personal questions she _really_ didn’t want to answer. It hurt to admit it, but Margaery was right--the way she’d been living was unsustainable, and if there was anything, _anything_ that could be done, Brienne would consider it.

“We had a girl a few years ago who gave her clients dreams,” Olenna eventually said, “Niche fantasies, things they maybe didn’t want to admit to or weren’t ready to do in the waking world. Do you have a good imagination, Brienne?”

“Um, I don’t know?”

Margaery grinned and said, “Brienne won’t know unless she tries.”

* * *

Brienne should be asleep, but instead she’s telling Jaime the long-winded tale of the single day she spent working for Olenna Tyrell.

“So, wait,” Jaime interrupts her, “you _actually_ did it?”

“I _actually_ did it. Only once, though.”

Jaime always touches her while they’re talking. Right now, he’s tickling his fingertips up and down her arm. There’s a bit of desire behind it, but it’s mostly a steady stream of affection. It’s so easy to immerse herself in that Brienne feels a pang of longing when he stops touching her. Jaime often joked about being addicted to her, but they’ve never discussed how swiftly the reverse came to be true. 

For the last month, Brienne’s felt so _good--_ no headache, no underlying frustration or fatigue. She has more free time every week because she doesn’t need to spend hours digging around for dreams.

“What was it like?”

The memory of it makes Brienne flinch. “It was...not for me. Olenna suggested I practice on one of her regulars. As you can imagine, taking a nap while waiting for a succubus to enter your dreams isn’t the easiest, so he used a sleeping potion. It was more concentrated than one you’d find for insomnia at a witch’s shop.”

Jaime has proven consistently curious about magical things, from Dany’s fortune telling, to enchanted baubles, to Brienne’s own abilities. “How long did it last?”

“About an hour of deep sleep.”

“Was it... _you?”_

Brienne shakes her head against the pillow. “N-No. I’m not sure _who_ he wanted--a woman, but he didn’t say who she was. As far as fantasies go, it was ordinary. It was just...I didn’t like that it felt like a transaction. I mean, working there, _everything_ is a transaction. There’s nothing wrong with it. I actually admire that Olenna runs it so safely.”

Jaime’s hand is near her shoulder, so he moves to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, lingering after. “I thought you didn’t mind the dreams?”

“They’re okay,” she replies, “but I already get something. I don’t need money. I also...had trouble with the person knowing I was doing it.”

 _“Ah,_ you prefer being a secret voyeur. I’ll keep that in mind.”

She shoves Jaime gently in the chest, not enough to push him even the littlest bit away. _“No._ The dreams...they feel like a good deed. I know they’re not, and it’s just how I...trick myself. Maybe working for Olenna _would’ve_ been more above-board than what I do. Her customers know what they’re offering.”

“Hey, I’m not judging you.” His fingertips are tracing the shell of her ear, now.

“Maybe there’s something worth judging.” Maybe Brienne’s existence was just like that. The next bit she whispers because it’s close to her heart. “It’s selfish, but I wanted to be wanted. It’s one thing if the dreamer doesn’t know, but I felt...sad, after. It sated me, but it was almost worse than mediocre sex.”

“I don’t think it’s selfish. For what it’s worth, I happen to be very into you _and_ your filthy dreams.”

“Do you...really want to see one?” Brienne’s a little afraid, suddenly; she can hear it in the way her voice wavers. “A dream that I’d have for myself about you?”

To give Jaime a dream, to draw from it and _be_ the object of his fantasy all at once. Brienne’s _never_ had that. Jaime’s heart rate picks up, and he inhales sharply. There’s a dozen tiny chemical reactions, seen and unseen, that translate to desire. She can play them in the right order, like notes on a scale, and Jaime comes undone for _her._

Jaime’s tone takes on a feigned coyness, _“Hmmm,_ what do your senses tell you?” He finds making Brienne tell him what he wants a fun game, even though he carries no shyness about expressing himself.

_As though we both don’t know._

“You want it.” Brienne never enjoyed the unspoken things she notices quite as much as she does with Jaime. She’s so different from Margaery, who finds desire thrilling. It doesn’t feel like she’s invading an intimate and secret part of Jaime's mind. Instead, he _offers._ “You...you _like_ the things I can do, and you want more.”

 _“Good.”_ His voice is thick with the complexity of the emotions coursing through him; most of them are beyond Brienne’s grasp. There’s only the fact that it’s _her_ who burns brightly at the center of the maelstrom. “I told you after the first time that I wanted you to knock me out.”

Brienne kisses him, feels the trust and the vulnerability of it, and her head swims. Jaime likes fucking, but he’s often not in a hurry to get to it. They’ve surrendered many an evening to this sort of thing--kissing and talking and lazy, aimless gestures. The tidal wave of sensation right at the end is what Brienne _needs,_ but Jaime’s lack of insistence or urgency is a feast in its own right.

 _“Delicious,”_ she mumbles into the kiss.

Jaime answers her with a deep chuckle, “Can you say that again?”

* * *

“Surprise me,” Jaime tells her, and that’s the last they speak of it; the timing and the contents left entirely under Brienne’s discretion.

The trust that it shows gives Brienne _a lot_ of feelings--pride that she proved her restraint to Jaime, a warm bubbling affection at the frustrated desire that comes off him as he’s trying to fall asleep. Brienne isn’t trying to make him wait on purpose; she’s just nervous.

“You’re teasing me with it,” Jaime whispers to her after a few days. He’s just flipped the lamp switch and plunged his bedroom into darkness.

Brienne is tired and a bit surly, “If I’m teasing you, you’ll know it.” 

Jaime slips an arm around her and curls up against her back. _“Mmm,_ I’m sure I will.”

It takes a few days, but Brienne decides on an ordinary week night. Jaime has the luxury of wandering into the office mid-morning, and Brienne doesn’t have class until the afternoon. Her heart hammers in her chest a bit less if she tells herself it’s not a big deal.

Dreams are most vivid during REM sleep, which is why Brienne’s usual method involves working in the middle of the night. Waiting, wide awake, beside Jaime that long isn’t going to happen; Brienne makes it maybe an hour before she knows she’ll fall asleep until morning if she doesn’t act. Jaime is curled away from her, facing the wall her bed is pressed against. She’s never seen a man as tall as Jaime try to curl up so tightly in bed; somehow, it makes him take up _more_ space

The dream she chooses is a simple one--something they’ve done in the waking world that Brienne knows he likes. She still isn’t sure if the first dream Jaime had of her was her doing, but he’d whispered the details of it hotly into her ear, and it’s Brienne’s inspiration now. 

Dreams are an odd thing; they begin and end wherever Brienne needs them too. She’s frustrated herself with the waiting, so she skips the foreplay and begins in the middle. She’s sitting astride Jaime, thighs clenching around his hips as he buries his cock into her with short, hard thrusts. Jaime grunts from exertion at the end of each push and grasps at Brienne’s hips to guide her into meeting his thrusts.

Normally, Brienne populates the details of the dream with scraps of experience from a variety of locations--she can tell _who_ the person wants, be it specific or more general, and what will bring them the most pleasure, but the specifics are up to her.

Jaime’s dream isn’t that. She knows every detail in perfect clarity and has to invent nothing. The feeling of Jaime’s fingers digging almost painfully into her skin, the exact expression of pleasurable concentration on his face when they find the perfect rhythm, the fireworks that explode through her body, and Jaime’s tidal wave of _want_ rushing at her--all of it _feels_ like them. 

In the dream, Brienne tugs Jaime’s hands away from her hips and slots their fingers together. Then, she pins them to the pillow on either side of his head. She doesn’t think _this_ was in his original dream, and she’s never tried it, but her intuition screams _do it._ Dream Jaime inhales sharply and tightens his fingers around hers, the echo of it rippling into the waking world. Jaime, asleep next to her, groans into the pillow, and something pulled taut in Brienne snaps like a rubber band.

When Brienne slides her hand into her pajama bottoms, she’s already wet and needy. The dream can continue without her; she doesn’t even usually look so closely. She dips a finger into herself and begins circling her clit, just to take the edge off. Coming isn’t necessary, not yet; this is about Jaime, not her.

That lasts for a few breaths until Jaime’s dream reaches _its_ climax, and he, still asleep, moans Brienne’s name in the same breathless way he does when they’re _actually_ fucking. _The dream did it._ She hadn’t touched him, simply shared her imagination, shared _herself._ Suddenly, her fingers feel wholly inadequate. Her bedside drawer has changed a bit since Jaime found it; Brienne has to fumble past granola bars, snack packs of almonds, and condoms they haven’t needed in two weeks to find her vibrator.

It brings some relief, but all too soon, the last bit of the dream slips away, and Jaime wakes. Brienne freezes, vibrator pressed against maddeningly her clit, as he orients himself.

“Brienne?” Jaime sounds bewildered. He shifts a bit, certainly realizing his state and what transpired. “I...I dreamed, and then I...” He pauses, and the buzzing seems _obscenely_ loud. “Are you _furiously masturbating?”_

“.... _No.”_

“I haven’t made a mess like that in a couple decades.” Jaime starts chuckling, strips his pajama bottoms and boxers in one go, and tosses them off the bed. They hit something on Brienne’s dresser and knock it to the carpet with a muted _thud._

Jaime moulds himself to her back, tickling his fingers down her arm and clicking his tongue like he’s about to scold her. “I thought you didn’t touch yourself during the dreams.”

“I..I don’t,” she gasps, “but I’ve never put myself _in_ one, and it was, um, _a lot.”_

 _“Mhm._ Want some help?”

Jaime’s hand is nearly parallel with hers; Brienne shakes her head, “I--I’ve got this. Touch something...else. Talk to me.”

“Yes ma’am.” Jaime cups her breast, finding her nipple through the thin fabric. Brienne can feel his breath hot against her ear, “That dream felt _just_ as tangible as the first one. Are you _sure_ you didn’t send it to me? You didn’t lie here, alone in your bed, thinking about me fucking you?”

All the response Jaime gets is a moan as Brienne slides two fingers into her cunt and fumbles with the vibrator with her other hand.

“I didn’t know you wanted to hold me down. What other things are brewing in that mind of yours?” He runs his tongue along the shell of her ear and ends by biting her earlobe. “You should be more generous with sharing your ideas, Brienne.”

“I didn’t--I didn’t want to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

Jaime tugs on her nipple with _just_ enough force that Brienne cries out. “We had that conversation, don’t you remember?”

“I do.” It contained a list of objections that they were in almost _perfect_ agreement on. 

“Good.” He sounds particularly pleased. “Now, you owe yourself an orgasm.”

It takes almost nothing--Jaime leans over her and moves his hand to her other breast, repeating the same motions as Brienne picks up the pace of her fingers. Everything turns into a chorus of sensation, each note perfect, and Brienne comes.

“Good girl,” Jaime presses his lips against her cheek.

After Brienne calms, she drops the vibrator on her nightstand and turns to face Jaime, head against his chest. He accommodates her with an arm around her shoulders, holding her close. The high from his orgasm, and then hers, hums against her skin even through her clothes. Jaime is rushing through her veins, and it’s bliss.

“Was it...was it good?” she moves her lips against his chest.

“Having some performance anxiety?”

Brienne slides her leg between his and makes like she’s going to jam her knee into his crotch. _“_ I _know_ I’m good at it, it’s just-- _”_

“You nailed it,” Jaime interrupts, “er, me, I mean.”

Suddenly, she’s very tired; he must be, too. “I’m glad.”

She feels Jaime’s lips against her hair, “Next time, feel free to go wild with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, everybody visits Olenna, and Brienne gets a little adventurous.


	2. III & IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, Jaime’s life now includes an evening spent with Margaery in the living room she shares with Brienne, seated at opposite ends of the couch watching trashy television.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely reviews on the first chapter!

**III.**

Somehow, Jaime’s life now includes an evening spent with Margaery in the living room she shares with Brienne, seated at opposite ends of the couch watching trashy television.

“Sansa _hates_ stuff like this,” Margaery says, “and you can sure as hell bet Brienne doesn’t watch it, either.”

Jaime began to notice Brienne and Sansa’s tastes in entertainment aligned eerily well. They both enjoyed historical romances and liked to complain about the subpar elements of movie or television adaptations. Brienne was a bit more reticent to admit her love of historical epics, but Jaime pried it out of her when he spotted _Dunk and Rohanne_ tucked next to a very dry looking textbook on her shelf. 

“Yeah, I can’t see her watching this,” Jaime agrees, “Frankly, I don’t know why _I’m_ watching this.”

“You know _exactly_ why,” Margaery says, “It’s because watching these walking human disasters makes you feel better about yourself.”

They’re watching a reality show about the Martells. Oberyn Martell has five lovers, and they all just discovered each other. It involves a lot of screaming and crying, all set against the backdrop of their opulent waterfront mansion in Sunspear.

“It...does,” he agrees.

“And it’s mindless entertainment.”

“It certainly is that.”

They pass a few more minutes staring blankly at the screen. Ellaria Sand, who seems to be Oberyn’s most reasonable lover, is trying to calm the others. The entire dramatic proceedings make Jaime think of his brother’s antics with women.

“Tyrion acts like this, you know.”

“Speaking of Tyrion and women,” Margaery looks away from the screen to Jaime, “I sent him a link to my grandmother’s website yesterday.”

“Website?” It takes Jaime a minute to connect her words with the story Brienne told him a few days prior. _“Oh._ She has a _website?”_

“Do you think she drums up business by sending out ravens carrying notes? _Of course_ she has a website. It has an online appointment booking system and everything.”

The idea that someone can book an appointment to fuck a succubus on their smartphone blows Jaime’s mind almost as much as Brienne’s dream trick had. He has exactly _zero_ experience with this sort of thing but finds himself oddly curious about the workings of it.

“Tell me more.”

Margaery starts laughing, “Clients book a consultation appointment first. Grandmother vets most of them, but sometimes it’s one of the others. Either way, _someone_ makes sure they’re not creeps.”

“Tyrion will never make it past the consultation.”

“He won’t if he thinks Grandmother will let him do what he wants as long as he has enough paper dragon notes to throw at it, no.”

 _But that’s the Lannister way._ Money can solve any problem, and if it doesn’t, more money piled on the original sum will do the trick. Their father and Cersei simply ignore things that _don't_ work that way. Tyrion’s a little better but not enough.

“I stand by my earlier assessment.”

“Listen,” she diverts all her attention from the television to the more local drama Tyrion brings. “I know men like your brother. They’re like fast food joints, you can find a dozen in every club and bar in King’s Landing.”

Jaime snorts, “I’m not certain my brother’s Lannister upbringing will weather the indignity of such a comparison. Are you implying Tyrion _wouldn’t_ be delicious?”

Margaery's smile is often both coy and secretive; tonight is no exception, but Jaime _thinks_ he detects a hint of shyness in the upward curve of her lips. “In the past, I considered men like him an easy meal. Now, I’ve been spoiled by Sansa’s sweetness.”

Even though she means it much, _much_ more literally than Jaime does, he responds, “I think I know the feeling.” 

* * *

It _still_ seems like a terrible idea, but Tyrion’s committed, Jaime’s _extremely_ curious, and Margaery’s grandmother texts Brienne and says _you know the one I’m really interested in meeting._

“Does she mean me?” Jaime asks when Brienne shows him the text.

Brienne nods solemnly, cheeks tinged pink. “Olenna likes to check in on me. Although, I have _no_ idea what Margaery has been telling her over the last couple months.”

Jaime stalks toward her, rounding the bar in his kitchen until Brienne is crowded between his body and the cabinets. She breathes in sharply and grips the edge of the counter. Brienne may have a supernatural advantage in regards to what he wants, but Jaime’s learned to read her. 

“Maybe that you’re _totally_ obsessed with me? Or that I’m _delectable?_ Or that you can’t keep your hands off me?” Jaime lilts at her but quickly falls victim to a wave of sincerity. “Brienne, I want to meet the people who are important to you.”

Brienne rolls her eyes, but her smile is affectionate. “You’re just curious about a magic bordello.”

“You know me too well.”

* * *

Jaime doesn’t quite know what to make of the entrance to Rose and Thorn. The sign features an elaborate, cursive font and a stylized red rose behind the letters. As usual, he arrives ten minutes too early for Tyrion, who will be _at least_ five minutes late. Margaery and Brienne will be exactly on time, but if he’s meeting Brienne alone, she’s even more punctual than he is.

It _feels_ like people are staring at him as he sits on a bench a few paces down the block. The entrance and sign are so discreet that without knowing what the place was, an average pedestrian would walk right by.

“You could’ve gone in,” Margaery interrupts Jaime’s wandering mine a few moments later. “No one inside will bite, at least not unless you ask.”

“I thought I’d wait for Tyrion,” Jaime deflects from the obvious truth--that walking through that door alone seems mildly terrifying. “You know, to make sure he doesn’t act like _himself.”_

Neither Margaery nor Brienne even smile, which tells Jaime that he isn’t wrong.

“Hi,” Brienne holds out her hand and pulls Jaime to standing; she doesn’t let go after.

The decor inside is much _less_ discreet. It’s not tacky like a strip club, but the low-lighting and the overstuffed couches make the lobby look like a boudoir in a classic movie. It’s not Jaime’s aesthetic _at all,_ and, unlike the outside, he doesn’t think anyone would make it past the lobby with an ambiguous definition of the type of business it is.

A young, dark-haired woman behind the desk stands when they enter. “Brienne! I haven’t seen you in _months.”_

Brienne lets go to Jaime’s hand to embrace the woman, “I know, Pia. I’ve been busy with school.”

“You’re too smart for us, now,” Pia teases.

“Never,” Brienne steps back from the embrace.

Pia looks past Brienne to Jaime, “Oooooh, is he here for the consultation?”

“No!” Jaime blurts too loudly, “I, just, um--”

“Grandmother wanted to meet Brienne’s boyfriend,” Margaery chimes in, “The appointment is for Jaime’s brother. We’re just stopping by for a few minutes.”

Pia peers over the desk at the computer, “Yep, Tyrion… _Lannister?”_ Her head pivots back to Jaime, “Like..Lannister?”

Jaime sighs, used to it, “The one and only.” 

“Well,” Pia’s surprise morphs into a mask of perfect professionalism, “We keep all our client records in the _strictest_ confidence.”

“Honestly, Tyrion would _love_ it if you, for example, _accidentally_ sent the bill to our father’s office.”

Pia giggles, “There’s time until the appointment. If you’d like to go back, I’ll tell Olenna you’re coming.”

“Thanks, Pia,” Margaery says.

Margaery looks at home as they make their way down the hallway. Brienne’s shoulders have a tension that Jaime recognizes from when she’s studying or worried about something. There’s no chance to ask.

Olenna Tyrell’s office, hilariously, reminds Jaime of his Aunt Genna’s sitting room at her house in Lannisport. He remembers spending many mind-numbingly boring afternoons there as a kid listening to adults talk. 

There’s a round of introductions before they’re all seated around a small table. They pass a few minutes on idle pleasantries, but Olenna is clearly trying to steer their finite amount of time in a certain direction.

“I may have used some grandmotherly privilege to attempt to get information on you, Jaime.” Olenna doesn’t sound the least bit contrite about that. If Jaime had lived as long as she had, he wouldn’t either.

“Was that particularly illuminating?” Jaime replies.

Olenna laughs, and Jaime understands where Margaery’s disposition comes from. “Brienne’s a private girl. Maybe you’ll be more forthcoming.”

Margaery taps Brienne on the knee of her jeans and drags her by the arm to the opposite end of the room where there’s a sink and a small counter. Brienne gives him a pleading glance as she’s tugged away, so Jaime grins to reassure her.

_I can handle an old woman._

“Depends on what you ask.”

“You know she’s a succubus, which isn’t something Brienne shares easily. I tried to get her to work here, you know.”

“Brienne told me.” Jaime tries not to sound smug about all the things Brienne trusted him with.

“I’ve never met a succubus with a personality more ill-suited to the task required of her.” Olenna glances at Brienne’s broad back. There’s the brief sound of a faucet running and a lid closing; she and Margaery must be making coffee. “I was happy to offer her a way to sustain herself, but it’s a lonely task, peering into others’ heads. I worry about her.”

Olenna’s concern is genuine. Jaime relaxes into his chair. “I’ll take care of her.”

“That’s a tall order for one man.”

“I know.”

She looks him up and down. “I’ve seen men promise that, but few live up to it. My husband tried his damndest, but age wasn’t on his side. Brienne’s needs might not match your own, and that can breed resentment.”

“We’re figuring it out,” Jaime says.

“Some men also don’t like the implication,” Olenna smirks, “They come here and throw down gold dragons for fantasy after fantasy, thinking they’re in power in all of them. Long term, the truth shows.”

“I have a healthy respect for what Brienne _could_ do to me.”

“Good.”

“And I know there’s moments where I’m…ceding control. It doesn’t bother me.”

Olenna’s laugh is raspy, “That’s refreshingly non-toxic. Much better than your father.”

“Wait, _what?”_

“If you inherited his virility but not his outdated opinions, then you’re better for it. I assume the same can’t be said for this brother of yours I’m about to meet.”

Jaime shakes his head like it will help his hearing. “You’ve met _my father?”_

“I’ve been in this business since before you were born. I’ve met _everyone._ Now--”

Just then, there’s a sharp rap on the door. Olenna calls out for the person to come in. It’s not Pia, but a woman with a dark, shaggy head of hair and a bit of a pug nose. She isn’t classically beautiful, but Jaime can see how she’d be appealing. 

“Hildy,” Olenna says, “What can I do for you?”

“Pia told me to tell you that your appointment is here.” She looks at Jaime. “Ooooh, who’s this? Can I have him? I’m human, mister, but I’ll still show you a good time.”

Jaime’s brain is stuck on Olenna knowing his father and the _horrifying_ capacity in which that relationship must’ve occurred. Hildy’s proposition bounces right off his skull.

It’s Brienne who turns, hands fisted at her sides, and nearly shouts, “Hildy, _stay away_ from him.”

* * *

The silence on the way back to Jaime’s apartment is a bit oppressive. Brienne isn’t ever as chatty as he is, but she’s glowering out the window, and her foul mood hangs around her like a raincloud. It’s past dinnertime, so Jaime calls in some takeout and dashes out of the car to pick it up.

It’s not until Brienne and him are seated at Jaime’s kitchen table, halfway through their meal, that he attempts to break the silence with actual conversation. 

“Olenna seems...nice.” _Terrifying_ might be a better word, but she _did_ seem nice.

Brienne, finally, makes eye contact. “She _is_ nice, and she looks after me like I’m her granddaughter. I _hate_ going to Rose and Thorn, though.”

“It doesn’t seem like a place you’d haunt,” Jaime says, “But, if you like Olenna, and you’re not...morally opposed, then why?”

“The whole place is like being in a room where there’s ten conversations happening at once.” She makes a production of adjusting the bacon on her sandwich, which Jaime finds terribly endearing. “There’s no way to drown out the din, and it just...it gets _frustrating.”_

The way Brienne emphasizes the last word tells Jaime what he needs to know.

“Ah,” he nods repeatedly, “there’s a lot of fucking, or thinking about fucking, or talking about fucking.”

“...That’s what I was trying to say delicately, yes. I didn’t mean to shout at Hildy, and I’m sure you didn’t appreciate--”

“--Your ‘keep your hands off my man’ outburst?” Jaime aims for his most salacious grin; it’s better than admitting that Hildy made him a bit uncomfortable. “I liked it, actually.”

Brienne goggles at him, then blushes furiously. _“Really?”_

“I’ve never been passionately claimed in public,” Jaime says, “Quite a thrill.”

“Hildy’s just like that. It was harmless flirting, and it’s not her fault I’m...possessive.”

“Hey,” Jaime itches to round the table and touch Brienne, craving that possessiveness she feels guilty of. “If it’s part of you, don’t feel bad about it.”

Brienne’s brows draw together, “It doesn’t excuse yelling or telling people to stay away from you.”

“I don’t mind being yours, and Hildy didn’t seem upset,” Jaime replies, “It wasn’t _nearly_ as mortifying as Olenna telling me I seemed as virile as my father.”

 _“What?”_ Brienne chokes on her drink and spends a few seconds coughing.

“Yeeeaaah, I don’t want to know those details,” Jaime shivers, “She also seemed worried about me...burning out.”

“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? I can always go back to feeding off dreams, even just to supplement.” 

She sounds sad, and that won’t do at all. Jaime abandons the last few bites of his sandwich. At the other side of the table, he takes Brienne’s chin between his fingers and tilts her head up so their eyes meet. _Let her see that the possessiveness runs both ways._

“The only dreams I want you in are mine, Brienne.”

* * *

They’re walking in a park.

Jaime knows the park--it’s near his apartment and is often filled with rich kids accompanied by an au pair. It’s the park he visited every other morning last summer when he decided to take up running. _That_ venture didn’t make it through the changing of the seasons. Running was boring, and Jaime went back to taking classes at the gym and swimming for his workouts.

He’d taken Brienne to the very same park two weekends ago. They’d gotten coffee, walking and talking until they were carrying around empty cups without noticing. There were just as many kids with au pairs as last time. It was easy, and delightful, to lose track of time with her.

There’s no room for words between them this time, not when Brienne has his back pressed against a tree and is kissing him senseless. She kisses him like this, sometimes--hard and furious like she’s trying to keep him from drawing air into his lungs. It goes on for so long that he’s certain he should be out of breath, but he isn’t. Jaime can’t quite get enough of the way Brienne nips at his lips, or the way her body presses him into the tree, hand splayed near his head caging him in. 

It’s a rush of adrenaline right before the tipsy, dizzy feeling Brienne gives him. It’s the moment where there’s a _hint_ of danger, where his fight-or-flight instinct kicks in and immediately gives way to the fact that Brienne, despite what a succubus _should_ be, is gentle. 

The kiss is its usual heady experience, and it’s not until Brienne starts tugging on his clothes and has a hand wrapped around his cock that _something_ starts nagging in the back of his mind. _We’re outside._ Jaime doesn’t recall how they decided against a tree was a good place to fuck, nor does he recall leaving the paved path.

Brienne turns the color of a tomato when Jaime kisses her in public, so there’s _no way_ she’d--

Being pushed around a bit by Brienne is a thrill, though, and that thought takes _much_ higher priority. The bark of the tree is rough through the back of his t-shirt. It doesn’t quite hurt, but it’s not exactly comfortable. It’s a summer afternoon, and the cicadas seem acutely loud for the season. Brienne knows _just_ how to touch him, every glide of her hand hitting all the right notes.

_Still, though, there’s something--_

Each stroke of Brienne’s hand is _distracting,_ which creates a tug of war in his mind--pleasure and the nagging feeling at opposing ends of the rope.

It’s not hard to guess which one wins out.

 _“Jaime.”_ Brienne’s said his name two-dozen ways over the last few weeks, breathless and needy and irritated and fond. He wants to hear all of them. “Do you like it?”

She sounds uncertain, which is a little odd because Brienne’s usually quite sure about this sort of thing.

“It’s you,” Jaime whispers into her ear, “Of course I like it, but...”

“But?” 

“I’m, um, I’m surprised that you--”

Brienne’s hand stalls, but that’s fine; the connection between them sings, and Jaime doesn’t need her to move to feel it. He doesn’t want to come too soon, anyway. 

Some pedestrians walk by on the nearby path, talking. A dog barks, and a child laughs. All anyone would have to do is walk ten paces into the trees, and their cover would be blown.

Jaime can’t muster his logical mind, but he manages to say, _“Outside.”_

“A little danger, right?”

 _A dream._ A lucid, _real_ one, but the colors are too crisp and the sensations too vivid. The last one hadn’t felt like this; it was warm and tangible. Brienne surprised him by lacing their fingers together and pressing them to the pillow.

The scene shatters. A hand shakes his shoulder. Jaime feels like he’s been pitched forward into a free fall, ground tilting. Then, he’s back in his bed, taking a gasping breath. Being wrenched out of a deep sleep is always disorienting. Brienne has one knee between his thighs and her hands braced against the pillow on either side of his head.

Jaime doesn’t like his room too dark, so with the curtains ajar, there’s enough light to see Brienne’s wide-eyed expression. 

“You...” Reality and dream are tangled together. Jaime shakes his head. “You woke me up?”

“I...I did. I thought it’d--I mean, it wasn’t--” Brienne usually doesn’t babble.

“Too hot and bothered to continue?”

She glances away, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

_“Brienne.”_

“Jaime.”

“Can you look at me?”

“No.” Brienne turns her head even further, and she misses Jaime’s grin at her stubbornness.

Jaime decides to keep talking. “The last dream was...it felt _real_ . Nothing was _off._ This time wasn’t like that--I could _tell.”_

“You’ve never known you were dreaming?”

“Well, sure, but this felt...different,” he says, “Brienne, I don’t understand enough. Can you tell me?” As an addendum to his plea, Jaime runs a hand down Brienne’s back; it’s a bit clammy under her t-shirt.

Brienne falls onto the blankets; Jaime adjusts so she’s resting her head against his arm. The desire coursing through him in the dream dims, and his body reacts accordingly, settling into the warm comfort of having Brienne close.

“You told me to _go wild._ I thought I’d _try--_ that’s a _really_ common fantasy, you know? The _slight_ danger of getting caught. It’s in so many dreams.”

Jaime bends his elbow, and Brienne curls closer to him. “It _was_ exciting,” he admits, “You pushed me into a tree. I wouldn’t mind more of it, especially since it’s not…”

“...Real?”

“Yeah. You seemed...nervous, maybe? The details in the dream felt off, like you were distracted.”

She sighs and falls silent for so long that Jaime thinks she might be asleep. “I’ve never ruined a dream like that.” 

“Okay.”

“When it was us-- _me--_ I didn’t like it,” she whispers, “Are you disappointed?”

That’s so far off that Jaime starts laughing. “I’m pretty sure you disappointing me sexually is impossible.”

Thankfully, Brienne starts laughing, too. “I’ll think about it differently next time. More _us_ and less--”

“--Like a romance novel? I don’t need anything elaborate.”

Brienne knees him in the thigh, but it’s playful.. “Do you...still want to?”

“Fuck?”

“Yeah.”

 _“Obviously._ Will you tell me the rest of the dream?”

 _“Oh,_ s-sure.” She’s surely blushing against his shoulder. “You were going to get behind me and--”

Brienne doesn’t need to finish that sentence.

Jaime smirks in the darkness, “I don’t think we’ve ever done that.”

**IV.**

Brienne can’t craft a dream better than Jaime. 

Even her most artfully detailed construction pales in comparison to reality. There are details that can’t be replicated--the exact pitch of a sigh from either of them, the way it feels to run her hand down Jaime’s back when there’s a fine sheen of sweat coating his skin, how it feels to be so close that she can’t find the beginning or ending of anything. 

Most dreamers don’t have an exact reality to compare the dreamed experience to. Or, if they do, it’s something lost to them and made better through the fondness of memory. Brienne never used her ability on a lover of her own. She sees her error; she didn’t consider the impact her own nerves would have on the dream. 

Her worry about being a wet blanket passes as soon as Jaime presses their bodies together. She sinks comfortably into the mattress, content to bear his weight. Jaime’s eagerness dimmed a bit while they talked, pleasant background noise, but it flares to life again when they kiss. He makes such a production of it--darting his tongue out to tease, nipping at her lips and then soothing in turn. When their tongues meet, heat rushes from Jaime into her. Things get a bit hazy after that. Time elongates into something formless. Jaime’s dizziness shows in the way his hand in her hair fumbles. 

“Hey,” Jaime kisses the corner of her mouth, her cheek, and then near her ear, “You don’t have to tell me, but what part of the dream didn’t work for you?”

“Getting caught.”

Jaime laughs and drops the rest of his weight onto her; he knows it won’t burden her. “But _you_ dreamed it.”

Brienne rests her hands on Jaime’s back, “I know.”

“You blush like a schoolgirl when I hold your hand in public. That might’ve been a sign.”

_“I know.”_

He wedges his face between her shoulder and neck, “How about outside, but somewhere _really_ private?”

“Real or dream?”

_“Yes.”_

Brienne thinks of Jaime, gasping and writhing under her hand, the way the dappled light through the leaves looked on his golden hair and skin. “You looked good in the sunlight.”

“Better yet, you _dreamed_ I looked good.” 

Praising Jaime’s appearances makes him smug, but a comment about his character makes him practically giddy. She’s learned to see the fragility he conceals under all the preening. Now, Jaime's cheerfulness at the compliment translates to desire.

“I was a snack in your dream,” he continues, “I’m still one now, aren’t I?”

Brienne groans, but it’s fond. “You’re _something._ Now, enough talking.”

Jaime won’t obey her for long. He’ll be quiet afterwards, so Brienne hangs on every word, foolish or filthy. His attention shifts to wrestling her out of her pajamas. It would be easier if he’d give her space, but with some elbowing and shoving, Brienne is soon naked. Jaime lays next to her on his side. She tugs his boxers down and reaches under the covers to touch his cock. His interest isn’t waning any longer.

There’s _something_ about touching Jaime when he’s still and not trying to reciprocate. When things are mutual, she feeds off his pleasure, and Jaime’s lulled and sated in return. The closed circuit feels good, but when it’s one direction, Brienne can focus on Jaime’s pleasure fully. Her strokes are much slower than the frantic ones in the dream. She likes the weight of his cock in her hand; the dream hadn’t quite gotten this feeling right, either. 

Jaime’s eyes fall shut, a happy half-smile on his face. His heart hammers a bit faster, and his breathing picks up. “Feels nice,” he mumbles after a few moments, “Are you trying to knock me out?”

“No.”

Touching Jaime quenches her thirst in one respect and creates an empty ache in another. It’s what she needs as a succubus, and what she _wants_ as Brienne. She isn’t quite over finding one person who can manage both. Jaime doesn’t even need to touch her; his reactions are enough.

“I think you’ve primed me enough,” he says.

“Me too.”

“I didn’t do anything, but I know when to graciously accept a compliment.”

* * *

Jaime might be ready, but it doesn’t stop him from flinging the blankets away and taking his sweet time. Brienne has no defense against Jaime when he touches her like this. It’s agonizingly slow, and she revels in it. He kisses her again before working his way down her neck, claiming her skin with his teeth and tongue.

Brienne never minds if Jaime leaves marks on her. He never lingers too long in a spot that will cause her embarrassment. Jaime kisses a trail through the slight valley between her breasts, then focuses his attention on her nipples.

 _“Mhm,”_ he purrs against her, circling his tongue around the peak and making her sigh. When he takes her between his teeth, Brienne arches off the bed to get closer. Jaime blows on her dampened skin. 

She’ll be a little sensitive tomorrow, but even that makes her want him more. Brienne presses her thighs together, seeking relief, but Jaime slides his hand between them to stop her. He tickles her while moving to lap at her other breast, and Brienne is ready to beg for his fingers or his tongue-- _anything._

When Brienne finally opens her eyes, Jaime is resting his head on one bent arm, smirking lazily at her. Annoyed at his composure, Brienne yanks his other hand until it’s covering her cunt. It makes him chuckle.

“It’s not funny.”

“Disagree,” he replies. 

The pad of his thumb finds her clit, making tiny circles that are ten times slower than Brienne needs. Jaime’s in no hurry and doesn’t break his pace even when Brienne spreads her thighs as wide as she can, hoping Jaime will take the hint. The contact feels good, tingling warmth spreading through her limbs, aided by Jaime’s satisfaction at watching. Her cunt clenches around thin air, and it’s like jumping for a ledge she can’t quite reach.

Brienne turns her head to glare and reaches for Jaime’s wrist. “This isn’t getting anywhere.” 

Smugly, he shakes his arm to dislodge her before resuming his gentle attack. “Are all succubi so impatient?”

Brienne’s moan is half frustration, half pleasure. She wants to tell Jaime her patience would outlast his, but the words won’t come. It also doesn’t feel true right now.

“You know, Brienne, if I don’t dote on you now, it won’t happen because I can’t manage it after.” Jaime doesn’t seem bothered by her incoherence. “I want you _close,_ but not quite there. You’ll come when my cock is inside you.”

_“Fine.”_

Before pulling his hand away, Jaime slides two fingers into her cunt. Brienne half wonders if he does it out of some concern for her readiness, but she’s so wet she can _feel_ it. Jaime laughs as he retreats, and Brienne feels an intense sense of vacantness until Jaime sticks his fingers in his mouth to lick them clean. Then, her mind is totally occupied at the sight of him.

 _“Mhm,_ maybe that’s what I should’ve done?”

“Jaime,” Brienne loves saying his name; it always draws him back to her. “I need you to...will you fuck me?”

“Was there ever a doubt? Turn over. It’ll be better than what you dreamed about.”

The line is supremely cheesy and _very_ Jaime. Brienne wants him so badly that being contrary is out of the question. Teasing doesn’t occur to her, either. She rolls over and pushes herself up on her knees and elbows. A bit of nervousness at being so exposed slices through Brienne’s desire.

Jaime is silent, but he’s _looking._

He _likes_ what he’s looking at, likes the fact that she’s bare and wet and waiting. Brienne can feel his heartbeat and hear his shallow breathing. Jaime isn’t touching her, but he’s itching to, and the simplicity of his feelings calm her.

“Brienne, what do I want?”

She glances back, and their eyes meet. “M-Me,” she whispers, “and only me.”

Jaime positions himself behind her, close enough that their thighs make contact. One hand goes to her hip, and the other squeezes her ass. 

_“Hey--”_

He does it again. “I’ll say it while I can. You worry too much.”

Brienne doesn’t know if that’s true, but it’s not the moment to argue. Jaime rubs the head of his cock against her cunt in a tease. Instead of complaining, Brienne waits until the positioning is right and pushes herself back onto Jaime’s cock. He lets out a yelp of surprise, but all of Brienne’s smugness is directed in Jaime’s headboard.

“Maybe _you_ should do the work,” Jaime muses.

When Brienne takes Jaime up on that suggestion, he grabs her hips tighter than he had in the first dream where she rode his cock. He doesn’t try to move her, instead relying on Brienne to push back into him. She begins with tentative movements, but it quickly progresses to slamming against him as she works to find an angle that seems elusive to her. Eventually, Brienne presses her hands against the wall above the headboard and pushes herself more upright.

“It’s not,” she sucks in a breath through her nose, “...quite right. Come closer.” 

There’s not _enough._

Jaime places one hand over hers on the wall and lets some of his weight land against her back. It’s not dead weight, but even if it was, she’d be fine. A week ago, they’d fucked on his couch, and she’d given him a piggyback ride and dropped him on the bed. That hadn’t been much trouble, either. In this position, Brienne can push back against Jaime, but he’ll be the one to move.

“Is this the back half of your dream?” Jaime’s voice is hot in her ear; Brienne nods. “How was I going to fuck you?”

“H-Hard, at first,” she whispers, almost wishing Jaime wouldn’t hear, “Then softer, at the end.”

Jaime thrusts, once, testing her directions. Brienne shudders appropriately. “What else did I do?”

“You touched me.”

“Here?” He cups her breast; they’re so modest that Brienne always half-wonders, disparagingly, if he’ll be able to find them without looking. Like he’s disproving her point, Jaime rolls her nipple between his thumb and finger. “What else?”

She whimpers helplessly, “With your hand--”

“Yes ma’am.”

It’s not a dream, but Jaime follows her directions _perfectly_. He takes her with hard, fast strokes that have Brienne arching her back to give him access to the best angle. She rests her forehead against the wall as Jaime palms her breast and grasps her hand. Each thrust wrecks her, and she tries to stop herself from crying out.

“There’s no one in the next room,” Jaime says, softly, into her ear, “No one can hear _or_ sense anything.”

“I--I know.”

“Then be loud as you want.”

Brienne supposes she doesn’t need Jaime’s permission, but having it unknots something within her, and her hold on herself unravels in the wake of it. Jaime slows down, just as she asked. The fullness and the angle are exactly when she needs, and when he coats his fingers with her wetness and goes after her clit, Brienne _swears_ her vision whites out for a moment.

Somehow, she dredges up words, “In the dream, we were going to...to come together.”

Jaime kisses the back of her neck, “I’ll try. Will you catch me?”

 _Always,_ but Brienne can’t say it, so she nods. In the dream, it would’ve been almost unrealistically perfect. Reality isn't like that, but it’s close. Jaime climaxes first and grunts some garbled version of Brienne’s name into her ear. The force behind it suffuses Brienne with energy, making everything blinding and glorious. Jaime gives and gives until Brienne is overflowing. The wave of energy combined with the physical sensation of Jaime spilling into her lets Brienne reach the height she couldn’t before.

As expected, Jaime immediately feels like a sack of potatoes at her back. Brienne would laugh if she didn’t immediately succumb to the usual feeling of guilt. _I took from him again._ As delicately as Brienne can manage, she slides Jaime off her back and onto the bed. He doesn’t stir, and she feels even worse.

“Hang on a minute,” Brienne whispers. She takes a tissue from the nightstand and nearly sprints to the bathroom so she doesn’t make a mess. When she comes back, Jaime is just as she left him, out like a light, arms and legs akimbo on the comforter. 

It’s such a trusting image that Brienne stares for a long, _long_ time before going about her routine.

First, she turns on the lamp. The clock reads the middle of the night, but sleep is the last thing on her mind. Jaime is easy to move, so Brienne rolls him until she can free the tangle of blankets and tuck him in. She’d laughed at Jaime for keeping a mini fridge in his room, but Brienne is grateful for the cold bottle of water now. She downs half of it and places it on a coaster on the nightstand. 

Her t-shirt comes to her mid-thigh. Brienne feels better once it’s back on, and she slides into the bed beside Jaime. He still hasn’t moved, so she adjusts him until his head rests on her thigh. She combs her fingers through the longer golden waves at the crown of his head. Jaime’s breathing is deep and even; he won’t wake for a while. 

Brienne will keep vigil until he does. 

When Jaime does wake, sometime later, he slowly turns onto his back to look up at her. His green eyes are bleary, and Brienne’s heart clenches painfully in her chest.

“Thank you.”

Jaime’s reply is equally soft, “For what?”

“You know, Jaime.”

“I almost like this part more,” he mumbles and tries to sit up, “Noodle arms, as usual.”

“Here.” Brienne tugs Jaime easily against her chest and hands him the bottle of water. “Drink that.”

“Okay, Mother.” His tone is jovial, if a bit enervated. “What snacks did you pack?”

The nightstand drawer is much messier than the one in her room, but both now have similar contents. Brienne has to fumble through notebooks and pens, but eventually emerges victorious with a bag of trail mix that has far too much dark chocolate to even be considered healthy. _It’s a treat,_ Jaime had chided when she found it, _and it has cashews._

“It’s nearly dawn,” Brienne sighs.

“So?” Jaime crunches a granola cluster “It’s Sunday, we can sleep until noon.”

“Won’t that feel like a waste?”

“I only wanted to hang out with you anyway. We can go to brunch.” 

She smiles at the memory of Jaime and Sansa demolishing a buffet a few weeks ago. 

Jaime snacks and drinks in silence, and when he’s done, Brienne places the water bottle back on the nightstand.

 _“Whew,”_ he shakes his head like it’ll clear the fog. “Thanks, Brienne.”

“For what?”

“Taking care of me.” Jaime reaches out and flips the lamp off. He sounds tired again, “I need my beauty sleep if I’m to be of any use tomorrow.”

The words sting a bit, so Brienne jokes, “Seven forbid anything impact your beauty.”

Jaime laughs as he settles under the blankets, facing her. “In twenty years, you’ll have to prop me against a wall and have your way with me.”

Brienne slides down until her head is on the pillow beside his. He falls asleep before Brienne can respond, and she stays awake for a long, long time thinking about the implications of that statement.

* * *

Olenna would be a better source of advice, but Brienne doesn’t think she’ll set foot in Rose and Thorn for a few weeks. The thought of Olenna’s keen stare, or Hildy’s inevitable smirk, is too much to bear. The next best source of advice would be Margaery, but, despite being a wonderful friend, she doesn’t always understand Brienne’s worries.

No, Brienne’s hoping for some reassurance, and Daenerys is the best choice.

It’s nearly closing time when Brienne opens the door to her shop. Dany is wiping off the tables with a damp rag, and looks up when she enters.

“Brienne!”

“I know you’re only open for a bit more.”

Dany drops the rag on the table, “Nonsense. Hours don’t matter to friends. If you flip the sign on the door to ‘closed’, I’ll make us coffee.”

“Maybe tea this time?” Brienne doesn’t think more caffeine will make her feel better.

“Sure.”

Brienne flips the sign and locks the door. Dany joins her at a table a few moments later with a tray containing a ceramic teapot. While the tea steeps, she studies Brienne.

“You’re upset,” Dany eventually says.

“I--no. I don’t know. Maybe.” Brienne sighs, “It’s Jaime.”

“Did you get into a fight?

“No. The opposite. It’s been...great, actually.”

Dany smiles, “You deserve that, but what’s bothering you? I know that crease between your brows.”

“I was...I was hoping you might be able to read my fortune about Jaime. It might be silly, but...”

“If I refused to read people’s fortunes about love and romance on principle, I’d be out of business,” Dany says, “Besides, I doubt you’re going to ask something trite like ‘will he leave his wife for me?’ or ‘what can I change to make him love me?’”

“No, nothing like that.”

Dany pours a bit of tea into her cup and, deeming it ready, fills it the rest of the way and does the same with Brienne’s cup. “You know I’ll do my best.”

“Jaime made a joke the other night about how things might be between us in twenty years. And I...I’d never considered something so permanent.” Brienne puts a single sugar cube in her tea and stirs it with a small spoon. “I mean, I don’t _not_ want it to be that way, my mind is just afraid to go there.”

“Do you want to know what he meant by it?”

Brienne shakes her head, “I’m not easy to be with, but Jaime’s so _good_ about everything. I feel...I feel _so_ much better now. I’m not as--everything is just better.”

Dany reaches across the table and takes Brienne’s hand. Some might see the gesture as a friend offering comfort, but it’s more. “You wouldn’t come to me just to ask if it would last.”

“I want to know if Jaime will grow to resent me. I’m trying to not be covetous or selfish, but I’m fighting myself over it, my _instincts._ I’m terrified that one day, he’ll wake up and think I’m using him.”

“Well, are you? 

“No! I’m grateful, truly, for every little bit, and I tell him so. I know, sometimes, that I slip up and take too much, and it shows. He trusts me, and I’m afraid he shouldn’t.”

“Brienne,” Dany squeezes her hand, “Do you know what I saw when I touched Jaime’s hand?”

“Other than that he should tell me his dream?”

“When he loves,” she lowers her voice, even though they’re alone, “it’s _big._ If he trusts you, he’ll be loyal past the point of reason. You could hurt him, and he won’t resent you for it. He might not even notice the pain.”

“Isn’t that worse?”

“He needs someone who he can trust with that feeling, and he’s never found them before. He stays closed off or gets taken advantage of.”

Brienne hangs her head, “I _can’t_ be the person he trusts like that,” 

“You will be,” Dany corrects.

“I’m afraid Jaime would hurt himself to help me.” 

Dany takes a drink of her tea, “That can be part of caring for someone.”

“I know.”

Dany closes her violet eyes and squeezes Brienne’s hand. “You both would rather hurt yourself than each other. That’s your protection.”

“Is that...my fortune?”

“Yes.” She pulls her hand back and opens her eyes. “Now, practically, without getting too _intimate,_ but what do you do...after, to replenish his... _you know.”_

Brienne starts laughing, and Dany does, too. “Food and water and sleep.”

“Is it enough?”

“Usually...but not always.”

Dany bites her lip in thought, “Have you looked into potions?”

“I only know the stamina potions Olenna makes clients sign an _extra_ waiver to use.”

 _“Gods,_ not those,” Dany laughs more, “unless he wants an erection that lasts half a day. I meant something more to replenish his energy.”

“I...don’t know _anything_ about potions.”

“Me either, but I know people who do.”

Brienne has learned, since coming to King’s Landing, to more graciously accept help from her friends.

“Thanks, Dany.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, Brienne finally nails the dream thing, and Jaime and she talk about ~*~*feelings.*~*~


	3. V & VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I think Brienne is avoiding me._
> 
> Jaime sends the text to Tyrion mid-morning, right before a conference call so long and so boring that he wants to bang his head against the table in sheer frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me much longer to post than I intended, but here you go!

**V.**

_I think Brienne is avoiding me._

Jaime sends the text to Tyrion mid-morning, right before a conference call so long and so boring that he wants to bang his head against the table in sheer frustration. His job is a holdover from when he used to work for his father. It’s not the most exciting career Jaime could imagine, but it pays the bills and leaves him with enough free time to consider taking up an enriching hobby or two. 

Still, there are days like today, where Jaime isn’t thinking about _anything_ his client is saying. He’s thinking about how his phone buzzed with what was surely his brother’s response. He’s thinking about how he hasn’t seen Brienne in a week--the longest span apart since they met. _It’s a busy week at school,_ she’d texted him.

They adjourn for a break, and Jaime gets up to take a much needed stroll outside the building. It also gives him a chance to read Tyrion’s text.

_What’s your evidence?_

Jaime types back _I haven’t seen her in a week._ That’s the objective truth, but there’s also a feeling, something more amorphous that Jaime can’t quantify. It sounds quite melodramatic, but he swears it feels like what’s between them is withering. Jaime misses her calming presence and the way she tries _not_ to laugh at his lame jokes. He misses being close to her, too, and wonders if Brienne has turned to the dreams of someone else yet.

He’d meant it when he said he didn’t want her to look somewhere else; not when Jaime _knew_ he could be enough.

 _So?_ Tyrion texts back, _Do you think she lacks object permanence and will forget about you when she can’t see you? Is she a baby?_

_No. I just...I said something stupid, and now things don’t feel right._

It’s not really a better explanation, and Tyrion must agree because he fucking _calls._ Jaime swipes his finger across the screen to answer.

“What middle school bullshit are you embroiled in?” Tyrion says.

“Excuse you,” Jaime answers, “I didn’t have to answer.”

Tyrion laughs, “Only I knew you would because, for some fucking reason, I’m doomed to bear witness to your drama.”

Jaime sighs into the receiver; they never see eye-to-eye about things like this. “It’s not drama.”

“What did you say?”

“I...made a joke that implied we’d be together for a long time.”

There’s a long patch of silence on the other end of the line; Tyrion is definitely waiting for the rest. _“Well?_ What did Brienne say?”

“I...I don’t know,” Jaime replies, “I passed out afterwards. I barely even remember saying it.”

“Then how do you _know_ she’s avoiding--” 

Jaime interrupts, “I just...I just _do._ I can’t explain it.”

His brother sighs again. “Listen, I don’t get the fucking magic shit that between the two of you, other than it sounds like a trip. The trip sounds fun, but the rest--you’re a grown man, Jaime, _talk to her.”_

“Brienne...she worries about me. _.”_

“You seem fine to me.” Jaime can almost _hear_ Tyrion’s shrug. “Olenna _did_ mention the famed Lannister virility to me.”

“I never want to hear those words in that order from you ever again.”

“I don’t know; I took them as a compliment,” Tyrion says, “You should, too, if you can handle Brienne.”

“Tyrion, what…” Jaime hesitates, “What if Brienne has decided she doesn’t need me?”

“I _highly_ doubt that Jaime; it seems like you’re Brienne’s favorite flavor.”

* * *

By the end of the day, Jaime’s a bundle of nervous energy and ends up at Brienne’s door. Margaery is the one who answers, wearing a silky, floral robe that, honestly, looks exactly in character for her. Her expression brightens immediately.

“Jaime! We haven’t seen you in a _week._ Brienne told me you were busy with work.”

“I wasn’t busy, Margaery.”

She glares over her shoulder toward Brienne’s room and then sighs. “Brienne’s done nothing but study all week. I’ve barely seen her except when she comes home at night. She’s even been eating in her room.”

“Is she okay?”

Margaery smiles a bit sadly, “She’s Brienne, Jaime. You’ve learned how she is, haven’t you?”

Jaime’s smile matches Margaery’s, “She’s been avoiding me. I thought it was because I said something stupid, but maybe--”

“Come in,” Margaery steps aside, “Brienne’s in her room, if you’d like to knock. I think she’ll stop being ridiculous if it’s you.”

“Gods, wouldn’t that be a relief?”

Margaery laughs again, “It’s hard for her to rely on someone. She worries about you. She worries about _everything._ I’m sure Brienne is imagining some horrible, melodramatic future.”

“I know,” Jaime nods, “I’ll get through to her.”

“She just glowers at me when she’s like this. Good luck.”

Jaime walks down the hall and knocks twice on Brienne’s door. There some shuffling--a book closing, the squeak of a desk chair, soft footfalls across carpet. The door handle turns, and Jaime’s heartrate picks up.

“I’ll eat later, Margaery, I need to finish this chap--” Brienne freezes, eyes meeting Jaime’s through the gap in the door. Her straw-blonde hair is pushed back from her face with an ugly headband; fine wisps are still escaping. “J-Jaime. What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t sound indignant, but Jaime certainly _feels_ that way. “I’m checking on you.”

“I’m fine. You didn’t need to.”

“You’re my girlfriend. I think it's a requisite part of my duties.”

“...I’m fine.”

Brienne doesn’t _look_ fine. There’s dark circles under her eyes, and Jaime’s _certain_ that when she lets him in, there will be other signs of her weariness. Jaime wonders if, when Brienne touches him, he’ll be able to _feel_ it, too. 

“You’re a bad liar, Brienne,” Jaime lets the accusation sit between them, “Will you let me in, or should I go?” He’s afraid that she will call his bluff and send him away.

“Okay.” Her nod is solemn, but she closes the door behind Jaime and locks it. It sends a tiny thrill down his spine; it gives him hope that she’ll keep him.

There’s a pile or two of clothes on the floor, and the desk is the messiest Jaime’s seen it since the first night. There’s errant energy drink cans scattered here and there.

“You’ve been--” Another accusation is on the tip of Jaime’s tongue, and he reels this one back in. “I’ve missed you. A week is...it felt like a _long_ time.”

“It did,” Brienne’s blue eyes are on Jaime, a silent tether, then she looks away. “There was...school, and then I…”

“You look exhausted,” he takes a step closer, “Do you need sleep?”

It’s an out that Brienne can take if she needs to. Jaime won’t state what she _really_ needs, even though he knows. They _both_ know.

“I used to be able to function through a low-level of...of hunger,” she whispers, “Now it...it’s harder.”

Jaime tries to lighten the mood, “Is that a veiled compliment about my quality? Am I a fine vintage?”

Brienne’s mouth twitches, but it doesn’t quite turn into a smile. “...Maybe.”

“Then why are you denying yourself?” Jaime wants to seduce Brienne, to woo her into taking what she needs without shame or guilt. “You feel best when your needs are met.”

Brienne draws in a sharp breath, but, disappointingly, she doesn’t move to touch him. “How do _you_ feel when my needs are met? When you _literally_ pass out? And what about in...in _twenty years,_ Jaime? What will we be like then?”

 _“Nothing_ if you shut me out. All week I’ve been wondering how I fucked up.”

“Jaime, I didn’t mean to--”

The emotions bubbling threaten to overwhelm him. “I’ve _missed_ you,” he says, “Even the parts you think aren’t missable.”

Brienne makes a strangled, half-sob. Jaime isn’t sure which one of them moves first, but the sense of relief when Brienne is in his arms is immense. He rests his forehead against her shoulder. Brienne has her nose pressed against his neck, and, after a moment, he feels the heat of tears against his skin.

“I missed you, too.”

“Good.”

“I...want you,” Brienne whispers, “I _need_ you. I...quickly forgot how _shitty_ I used to feel.”

Jaime strokes a hand through her hair, “There’s no need to remember. I told you I was strong enough, but you _have_ to trust me.”

 _“I’m_ the one I don’t trust..”

“Then trust that _I_ trust you. I’ll prove it to you.”

“How?”

Jaime grins into Brienne’s hair, “Your dinner just arrived.”

* * *

The shittiness of the week fades into the background when Brienne earnestly, unabashedly kisses him. Jaime silently wills her not to hold back, and she seems to be thinking the same thing.

Or, maybe Brienne’s just been without him too long, and she can’t help herself.

Brienne’s kisses are heavenly; her lips are the perfect fullness, and she lingers at just the right moments to make Jaime feel like he’s burning and melting and flying and a whole host of potent, yet potentially contradictory emotions. She kisses Jaime until he’s clinging to her and trying to return the gestures quite artlessly.

By the time Brienne half-carries Jaime to the bed, he’s tipsy like he downed three shots on an empty stomach. The room tilts pleasantly, and then he’s on his back on Brienne’s pillowy mattress, staring unfocused at the textured drywall on her ceiling. She sits next to him on the bed, and Jaime reaches up to touch Brienne’s cheek, missing by half a handspan.

“Don’t _ever,”_ he mumbles, making a second pass with his hand and swiping Brienne’s jaw with his fingertips, “go a week without kissing me again.”

Brienne touches his hair, making Jaime turn his head into her hand like a cat. “I guess it’s the cheapest high around.”

 _“Mhm.”_

“Can I keep going?”

“Obviously,” Jaime uses his elbows to prop himself up. Brienne’s big, blue eyes are uncertain; it’s an expression he never wants to see, especially not here, not when she makes everything feel so good and _right._ Jaime decides to test the limits of his constitution, sitting up the rest of the way. “Let me help you feel good.”

She gives Jaime a sharp, decisive nod; it’s all the permission Jaime needs to kiss Brienne again.

There will be a moment, later--there _always_ is--where Jaime will give in to Brienne. He won’t be able to stop himself, and he looks forward to it. Until then, Jaime decides to prove to her just how much he can take. 

“This headband is ugly,” Jaime plucks it from Brienne’s head and throws it, “and you’re done studying for tonight.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You don’t need this, either,” Jaime slides his hands under Brienne’s t-shirt. The firm muscles make his cock take interest. He pushes the shirt up and over her head. “The sports bra, too.”

“Impatient,” Brienne mutters but takes the bra off.

“Never claimed not to be.”

They shed clothes rapidly after that, trading touches with hands and lips and tongues. Jaime could spend a day lavishing every inch of Brienne with attention, and while he’ll grow impatient long before that, he keeps pressing kisses against her skin until an endless series of tiny, appreciative gasps leave Brienne. She’s wet when he slides his fingers between her thighs, and wetter yet when he follows the same path with his mouth soon after. Brienne arches into him, hands scrabbling against the comforter in her pleasure.

“A week without this, too,” Jaime whispers, brushing his nose against her clit, “I missed the way you taste, Brienne.”

“I need--I need--”

“I know. It’s okay.”

Brienne comes, shaking and thrashing, and Jaime works his way up her body and slides his cock straight into her before she comes down from her orgasm. The tight, familiar heat of her makes Jaime reel more than the kiss had. The sensation is so intense that, for a moment, moving doesn’t even occur to him. Brienne clings to Jaime, arms around his neck until his body is pressed flush against hers.

The more fervent the pace, the more quickly Brienne will render Jaime incoherent. He tries to take it slow, but, as usual, the magnetic force that is Brienne always proves too strong. Brienne’s hands slide down his back, slipping on his sweat-damp skin, and she wraps her legs around him to keep them together. There’s always a hint of possessiveness to Brienne’s touch, and the thrill of it makes Jaime thrust into her with abandon. 

“I wanted to go slow,” Jaime laments, hot in Brienne’s ear, “To show you that I’m--”

“You are,” Brienne answers, “Please, it’s too...too much.”

Jaime looks down at Brienne; her pupils are blown wide with desire. The connection between them sings in Jaime’s blood, binding him to her. _No, binding us together._ It’s as certain as Brienne’s hands digging into his shoulder blades, as certain as his cock filling her, as certain as her legs crossed at his back.

“Brienne.” Her unfocused gaze drifts to him, and Jaime waits to speak. “I love doing this with you.”

Her reply is the sloppiest kiss imaginable, but Jaime feels the lulling comfort of Brienne’s affection, and that’s what makes him come after a few final, staccato thrusts. 

The last thought before the blackness takes Jaime is that he just loves Brienne, too. 

* * *

Brienne’s resting against the headboard, reading her textbook, when Jaime wakes up. He tries to read the title from where he’s using her thigh as a pillow, but the words are upside down; he’s not alert enough for a feat like that.

Instead, he says, “Back to work already?”

She closes the book and places it on the bed, “I felt like I could concentrate again.”

“I’m always happy to be of service.”

Her blush spreads down her neck and chest; only then does Jaime realize Brienne is reading while naked. Brienne notices his staring and clutches her arms to her chest. When he has more energy, he’ll laugh about her pointless modesty. For now, he turns his head and kisses her thigh.

Brienne traces the pad of her index finger over his forehead like she’s smoothing out his frown lines. Jaime’s too relaxed to even consider scowling. She does it a couple more times until Jaime closes his eyes. “I bought...there’s new snacks, if you’re hungry.”

Honestly, Jaime’s too drained to be immediately hungry, but once he’s stuffing his face, his opinion will change. He nods, and Brienne pushes him until he’s upright. All the blood rushes to Jaime’s head, and he tilts to the side until he’s pulled against Brienne’s chest. She opens the drawer, grabs a few things, and scatters them across his lap on top of the blanket. 

“Brienne,” Jaime takes in the buffet on his lap, “Are those...Arthur Dayne fruit snacks, or am I hallucinating?”

“I ate them as a kid.” Brienne sounds _very_ defensive, “They were by the register. I know it’s stupid, but I’ve been treating myself during study breaks.”

Laughing, Jaime rips open the packet and is greeted by the familiar shapes of Dawn and Arthur Dayne’s cartoon head. There’s other shapes, too, stars and shields, all in primary colors denoting an artificial fruity flavor. He pops three into his mouth simultaneously. 

“I liked the red ones as a kid, but they all taste the same now.”

“I always wanted green, and...yeah, they do.”

Jaime eats two more pouches in rapid succession, “The servings seemed bigger then, too.”

“Because you were smaller.” Brienne pushes a granola bar wrapped in wax paper into Jaime’s hands. “Switch to something vaguely nutritious.”

“Homemade?”

“I want to control the sugar content.”

 _So practical._ Jaime keeps his thoughts to himself as he breaks a piece off. It tastes like almond butter and pumpkin seeds. “Arthur Dayne tastes like nostalgia, but these taste _good.”_

“Thanks.”

The rest of the granola bar and a bottle of water later, and Jaime closes his eyes and lets Brienne holding him lull him into a doze. She’s solid and comfortable at his back, and Jaime isn’t sure how much time passes before he speaks.

“What does it say about me how much I enjoy this bizarre aftercare?” Jaime keeps his eyes shut, “If you think you’re just taking without giving back, it’s not true.” 

_“I’m_ the reason it’s needed--”

“It’s _not_ needed, Sleep would be enough, and if it wasn’t, you could go elsewhere. You don’t because you _care.”_

“You make yourself vulnerable to help me,” Brienne whispers, “This is nothing compared to that.”

“It’s something to me. I can stop being an ass and making jokes about being a snack, but I don’t want to stop helping you. And maybe in twenty years I _will_ be a husk of man.”

_“Jaime.”_

He disentangles himself enough to turn and face Brienne; she looks as distraught as Jaime guessed she would. It’s an expression worth loving her for, but Jaime wishes she wouldn’t worry so much. “There’s going to be bullshit. Succubus bullshit. _Life_ bullshit. We’ll deal with it as it comes.”

Brienne’s expression softens, “I went and asked Dany for a fortune a few days ago.”

“Did she tell you our love was destined in the stars?”

“Not exactly.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“N-no. Dany also suggested this, through.” Brienne reaches over to the nightstand and produces a tiny blue bottle. 

Jaime takes it and holds it up; he can just see that it contains liquid. “Magic?” 

“A potion. Apparently, it’s popular with students because it helps with all-nighters.”

“And _you’ve_ never heard of it?”

“I have good study habits,” she grumbles, “Anyway, Dany said it might be more effective than food and sleep, especially if we’re…”

“Overzealous?” Jaime smirks and turns the bottle over. “It sounds less sketchy than Olenna’s all-day-boner potion. I meant to ask Sansa if there’s anything she used.”

“Sansa’s young and a woman. She also has magic of her own; it might not be comparable.”

“Sorry you got saddled with the base model.”

“Do you want to try it?”

“Next time,” Jaime rests his head on her chest and drops the bottle on the bed, “I’d like to savor this one a bit.”

**VI.**

“Maybe we should register them for a competitive eating contest? It could be a good side hustle.”

Brienne grins at Margaery, and the joke comes to her a little easier, “My textbooks cost an arm and a leg, so monetizing them might be worth looking into.”

“Those contests are always gross foods like hot dogs,” Margaery wrinkles her nose, “Unless we can find one for hashbrowns or eggs benedict, we might be out of luck.”

“I don’t think Jaime’s a picky eater.”

“Well, Sansa has the refined palette of a lady.”

The plate of hashbrowns on the table is _truly_ monstrous, and both Brienne and Margaery already helped themselves to decent-sized servings. Jaime and Sansa raced each other through a plate of pancakes before getting up to procure more from the buffet. Brienne eats her omelette at a measured pace, but it’s not enough to distract from the fact that half of their party eats enough brunch food for a sports team.

“Have the two of you figured it out?” Margaery leans in and whispers. “The rain cloud over your head seems to have passed, and you made a _joke.”_

“I make jokes all the time.”

“Not about sore spots you don’t.”

“It’s not a--” Brienne purses her lips, “Fine, you’re right.”

“I know.”

Brienne sighs, “I was being stupid and self-sacrificing. It’s hard for me to let people help me.” 

Margaery reaches around Brienne and squeezes her shoulder. “I’ve noticed that about you. It’s not a burden to help the people in your life, and no one can exist in a vacuum. Brienne, I’ve wanted you to see that since we met.”

“I know,” Brienne feels a wave of affection for Margaery and tears burn behind her eyes, “You’ve been a good friend, even when I’m stubborn and rude to you.”

“And you always come out with me and look after me, even though I know you don’t like it.” Margaery leans in and kisses Brienne’s cheek, which makes her face flame and Margaery laugh. “I hope that won’t matter again for a long time.”

Jaime and Sansa are debating the merits of the flavored syrups at their table and return just in time to see Margaery kiss Brienne’s cheek.

“Should I be jealous?” Jaime asks as he places his plate on the table; the assorted flavors of mini muffins are nearly toppling over. 

“I don’t think they’d be much use to each other.” Sansa’s own plate is filled with fruit this time, “Not that I want to share.”

“We were talking about the two of you, actually.”

Sansa places her plate on the table and kisses Margaery. When she pulls away, Margaery’s cheeks are a bit pink. Brienne doesn’t think she’s ever seen Margaery blush. Brienne picks up her coffee cup to hide her smile.

“Good things only, I hope,” Jaime says.

“The _best_ things,” Margaery agrees, “Did I tell you that Tyrion’s going to Rose and Thorn next week? Grandmother wouldn’t tell me when, but I kept guessing days of the week and convinced Pia to blink three times when I hit the right one.”

Jaime whips his phone out and places in the midst of the wreckage of plates, “It’s Wednesday,” he says, “and there’s no need to ask Pia to confirm it because Tyrion _won’t shut the fuck up_ about it.”

The series of texts, half of which Jaime hadn’t responded to, confirm the truth.

“He’s got a bit of an inferiority complex about you,” Brienne says, “Has he always been that way?”

“Fucking yes. He followed me around like a shadow until I left for college. Now he just tries to compete pointlessly.”

“I don’t think this is something to compete over,” Sansa says.

 _“I know._ I hope he sleeps for a godsdamned _week_ afterwards, so I don’t have to hear about it.”

Margaery grins, “That’s absolutely within the realm of possibility.”

* * *

Wednesday comes and goes, but they hear nothing from Tyrion. Jaime seems a bit relieved that his phone has stopped blowing up, but Brienne can tell he’s a bit worried, too. 

On Thursday, Jaime texts her, _They didn’t actually kill him, will they?_

Brienne responds, _No, Jaime, because that’s murder._

His response is an emoji that looks _very_ unamused. When she shows up at his door that night, the shadow of concern is still there.

“Arthur really _is_ your cat,” Brienne calls out from the couch. Arthur is flopped across her legs, belly up, and hasn’t moved since Brienne started petting him. She abandoned reviewing her notes and even stroked his fur in the wrong direction to see if he’d gnaw at her hand, but Arthur remains blissfully knocked out.

Brienne could probably pick Arthur up without him stirring. 

“You mean because he’s obsessed with you?” Jaime looks over his shoulder from where he’s standing in front of the stove. _Kiss the chef_ is emblazoned across the front of his apron.

Many, many times, Brienne has answered that command; she wants to get up and do so now, but it would disrupt Arthur and probably ruin dinner. Jaime’s a _much_ better cook than she is, so he’s the one stir frying vegetables. Brienne can smell sesame oil and chili paste, so whatever he’s making is going to taste good.

“Yes, but also…” Arthur _trusts_ her and had from the very beginning. Brienne expected everyone to be wary and avoidant. “Cats are good at sensing supernatural threats. There’s a reason so many witches use them as familiars.”

“I thought it was just for the aesthetic.”

“I mean it’s probably that, too.” She pets Arthur more, and he starts to purr. The fur on his belly is more white than orange. “Arthur isn’t threatened by me, and he must not think you should be, either.”

“Or, Arthur’s desire for affection outweighs his sense of self-preservation. In that case, he _is_ my cat.”

Finally, Brienne’s able to laugh easily at the joke. It’s been over a week since things returned to normal. The guilt still chases her a bit, but Jaime is good at sussing out her moods and quick to offer his gratitude. 

Dinner is spicy and delicious, and Jaime spends most of the meal talking animatedly about something at work that’s comically frustrating. Their knees bump under the small dining table, Arthur swirls their feet but would be _absolutely_ unhappy with any morsels offered.

Halfway through dinner, Jaime’s phone buzzes, and he reaches for it too quickly. His eyes scan over the screen, and then Jaime starts laughing and typing.

“Share,” Brienne demands.

He turns his phone to face her. Tyrion’s text reads _how are you even alive right now?_

“What should I tell him?”

Brienne starts laughing, too. “Do you want the truth or a joke?”

“Yes.”

“Say something about Lannister virility.” 

Jaime’s thumbs are poised to type a reply, “Is that the truth or the joke?”

Brienne just shrugs, “Yes?”

Jaime types a response, and only seconds pass before his phone buzzes again. “I told him I had good genes,” he explains, “Tyrion says, and I quote, ‘I slept for an _entire day._ I bow to your prowess.’”

“Oh, you have _prowess_ now,” Brienne tries to keep a serious expression, “Tyrion got what he paid for, and I’m sure he enjoyed it.”

 _“Ugh,_ me too.”

After they clean up, Jaime turns on the television and snuggles against Brienne’s chest on the couch. Unlike the couch in her apartment, Jaime’s is long enough for two tall people to stretch out. The slower beat of Jaime’s heart tells her he’s dozing, warm and pliant in her arms.

The volume on the television is barely enough to hear; besides, there’s something more enticing for Brienne to watch. When Jaime is close like this, it’s so tempting to dip into his mind.

“Anytime,” Jaime had told her, “and, _no_ , you don’t have to ask.”

Brienne still does most of the time.

Honestly, that blanket permission statement still fucks her up. It’s overwhelmingly intimate, and the trust it displays is hard to look directly in the face. Being able to peer into Jaime’s mind, to skim fantasies from the landscape of it and put them into practice, makes Brienne want him all the more.

He’s not sleeping deeply, but Jaime’s mind is quite open, especially to Brienne, who’s learned to navigate it. Jaime wants a lot of things, some they’ve never spoken about, and Brienne never has to dig around for ideas. She’s never seen a mind where desire is so close to the surface, unbound by the twists and snares that can make people deny what they want. Maybe Jaime’s always been that way, but part of Brienne hopes it’s for her.

“What are you thinking of?” Brienne whispers into Jaime’s hair.

The image Brienne finds nearly makes her back out of the dream. It’s barely a fragment of a fantasy--Jaime’s wrists are bound above his head and secured to the headboard. Brienne isn’t touching him, only observing, but already Jaime’s breathing is swift and shallow. His eyes are shut and an appealing flush sweeps down to his chest. Brienne looks further, to the fact that Jaime is naked, cock jutting upward between his thighs. He looks poised on a ledge, as though she’d been teasing him and only stopped to admire her work.

Brienne _can’t_ stop looking; the idea is there, burned into her mind, too. The image is what Jaime wants _her_ to see. Jaime dreams of her watching him, of freely giving her control. Even his subconscious mind trusts her.

“Jaime,” she whispers again, running her hand down his back and feeling the warmth of his skin under his shirt.

Before Brienne’s courage fails, she creates the dream. The more she dreams of Jaime, the closer she gets to reality. She leans over where he’s prone on the bed, fingers trailing the patch of golden hair on his chest.

“You look _almost_ as good,” she tells him, “I’m getting better at _you.”_

She feels an odd sense of pride at that.

Jaime opens his eyes, gaze unfocused, and his only reply is more panting breaths. When she pinches his nipple, Jaime arcs off the bed and tugs at his bound wrists futilely. Brienne caresses her way up Jaime’s chest, noticing the tenseness of his neck and shoulders. Her fingers chase the feeling away somewhat, but it’s not until Brienne leans down and kisses him that Jaime melts into the sheets.

“You can relax,” she murmurs against Jaime’s lips, “You’re just dreaming.”

Nevertheless, Brienne walks her fingers up Jaime’s arm to where the rope binds his wrists together and slips her fingers between rope and skin. Even in a dream, Jaime shouldn’t be uncomfortable. She’d always been good at these details, too, and could never bring herself to craft dreams where they didn't matter. 

The kiss is punctuated with tiny, encouraging noises that turn into moans when Brienne strokes his cock. “I’ve never thought of this,” she tells him.

“I--I have,” Jaime admits, eyes scrunched closed again, “What did I think of next?”

“I know,” Brienne answers, “and I’ll do it.”

Jaime’s cock is heavy in her mouth, and she has to press his hips into the bed when she takes him all the way to the base because Jaime pushes up into her. It’s mostly effective, but Jaime still jerks when Brienne swirls her tongue around the head and hollows out her cheeks. The increased pressure makes Jaime moan in encouragement and thrash under her. If Jaime could, he’d be grabbing her hair and guiding her.

Instead, he begs her, _please_ falling from his lips over and over.

In the waking world, Brienne’s eyes have fallen shut, lost in the fantasy she’s weaving between them. The ache between her thighs, dulled and distant at first, flares to life when Jaime’s cock hardens between them. He shifts in his sleep, seeking friction, and rubs against Brienne in a way that’s _almost_ perfect. She’s forced into waiting, relying on Jaime’s unintentional movements.

In the dream, Jaime’s the one who’s bound, but _here,_ on the couch, Brienne’s pinned by Jaime’s weight. The only recourse is to wreck the dream, and she doesn’t want that, not when it’s so--

 _“Brienne.”_ Her name is barely a breath, sighed into her collarbone.

She takes her mouth off Jaime’s cock in the dream. It makes a wet _pop--_ another detail Brienne prides herself in recreating. Jaime’s more of a picture than he was before, cock glistening wet in the warm light of the bedside lamp. Every inch of his skin is flushed, and he’s tugging on the bonds again. 

The signs of Jaime’s impending orgasm are familiar; Brienne’s always chasing the high it gives her. Jaime in the dream and Jaime in her arms start to echo one another--the same tiny movement of his hips, the same sharp breaths through his nose, the same wave of energy about to crest.

She can wait, and so can he; there’s pleasure in that, too.

Brienne shakes his shoulders gently, “Wake up, Jaime.”

It’s not abrupt like the time she crashed through her own dream. Jaime wakes slowly and immediately shifts in her arms, seeking a more advantageous position. He gasps when he finds it, grinding his cock against her. Through his jeans and her sweatpants, it’s not nearly as vivid as the dream. Brienne widens her thighs, pressing her knee against the back of the couch. Jaime’s indolent and sleepy in his motions and doesn’t speak for a long while.

“I take a little post-dinner catnap, and you get _right_ to work.”

Embarrassment creeps up Brienne until her ears are burning; she’s certain Jaime is teasing her, and it only registers a bit of panic. “I just--you’re very inviting; it’s hard to resist.”

Jaime’s smile is lopsided and a little drunken, “It's a good thing I don't want you to."

* * *

Arthur weathers Jaime’s discarded shirt landing on him. When Brienne’s shirt follows a few short moments later, he hops down from the chair, glares at them, and walks into Jaime’s bedroom.

“Little shit,” Jaime grumbles, “I didn’t want a voyeur anyway.”

“I’m...sort of a voyeur, aren’t I?”

“Entirely different. I _want_ you to watch.”

Jaime’s drowsiness wears off quickly. He straddles Brienne’s lap, hands cupping her breasts as he leans over to kiss her. His thumbs brush over her nipples, gentle passes back and forth until the peaks harden. When Jaime’s tongue touches her lips, Brienne’s mouth opens for him, a groan low in her throat. Jaime answers her with a whine, tongue curling around hers.

Brienne reaches to touch Jaime’s cock, the hard line of it evident through his jeans. Her touch is feather-light, probably too soft for Jaime to feel. He breathes sharply into her mouth and pushes his hips forward. The hint isn’t subtle, so Brienne unbuttons Jaime’s jeans and tugs the zipper down. 

Horribly, she _still_ thinks of the Arthur Dayne boxers. The memory means Brienne’s giggling when her hand circles around Jaime’s cock.

“I don’t know that I like to hear you laugh while touching my cock.”

“It’s the Arthur Dayne boxers. I keep thinking of them.”

Jaime laughs, but it’s interrupted when Brienne rubs her thumb over the head of his cock. His hips jerk, and he leans closer to Brienne and drops his forehead against the pillow behind her head.

“They drove you crazy, and I got lucky that night. I’m _still_ getting-- _ah,_ go slow.”

She starts at the base again with a firm pressure and an agonizingly perfect pace. “All right.”

“You stopped the dream just right,” Jaime turns his head and kisses her neck, tongue darting out to taste her skin. “You know, I don’t have any rope.”

Brienne flushes, “You surprised me a little with that one.”

“Really? I’ve never wanted that before, but with you, it seemed good. I wanted to you fuck my face or ride my cock while I couldn’t move.”

A shuddering sigh leaves Brienne, “I was thinking that, too, but then I--I wondered if that was too much.”

Jaime presses more hot, wet kisses to her neck. She releases his cock to slide her hands up his chest. Jaime jerks toward her when she presses the pad of her thumb against his nipple. He’s so eager, so open and responsive, that Brienne wants to trap him here, too.

“No more than how much I crave how defenseless you can make me feel.”

 _Right._ The dynamic exists between them--it _has_ to. Brienne can’t stop from lulling Jaime into a sense of safety anymore than Jaime can resist it. 

“Do you want...more?”

“I want,” he looks down at her, breathing heavy and dark-eyed, “whatever you’ll give me.”

“Okay.” 

Jaime scrambles off her lap and trips shucking his jeans and boxers the rest of the way. Brienne tugs her sweatpants and underwear down in a single motion. She looks at Jaime, awash with desire that radiates outward to her. The feeling of it is as comforting as any touch.

“Do you want to go to the bedroom?”

“Too far,” Jaime answers.

“You just want me to carry you to bed after,” Brienne sighs, “There’s a potion in my bag, if you want.”

“You just don’t want to carry me to bed.”

“You’re too tall.”

They’d tried the potion once before; post-orgasm, it reduced Jaime’s recovery time dramatically. Taken before, they guessed it might keep him awake. It was worth a try. Jaime finds the small bottle in Brienne's bag, treating Brienne to a delightful view of his ass when he bends over. 

When Jaime downs the potion, he scrunches his face, _“Still_ tastes like overripe blueberries.”

“You should leave a review online.”

Jaime trades places with Brienne on the couch, lacing his fingers together and stretching his arms above his head. He’s pandering to her, seeking attention, and Brienne drinks in the sight, every inch of golden skin and absurdly perfect muscle. The longer she stares, the bigger Jaime’s grin gets. Her mouth feels like sandpaper, and her cunt throbs with an ache that needs fulfilled. 

“Come here, thirsty girl.” Jaime holds out his hand and waggles his fingers, “Or your catch will get away, and then you’ll be sad.”

Brienne rolls her eyes at Jaime’s cheesy line. Every instinct screams to keep what she’s found, to mark him her own so there’s no uncertainty. Fighting the tow of the feeling is exhausting when everything comes back to Jaime _asking_ to be claimed. 

Jaime groans quite theatrically, and his eyes flutter shut as Brienne sinks down onto his cock. When he reaches to take her hands, lacing their fingers together and squeezing, Brienne stops and stares. Jaime filling her, spreading her open, always wipes her mind clean. Impatient, Jaime bucks his hips against her, sending a spike of pleasure up Brienne's spine. 

“This an interactive exhibit, for the moment, at least.”

“Don't...don’t test me,” Brienne focuses on keeping still, denying her desire to roll her hips. Irritated at Jaime’s ridiculous handsomeness, his smug smirk even in his disadvantageous position, she threatens, “I’ll get up.”

“You won’t. You want it too much.” Jaime moves their joined hands above his head, pulling Brienne forward with him. The motion changes the angle, and they gasp in unison at the pleasure of it.

All of Jaime’s desires pour into Brienne, said and unsaid. She leans in to rest their foreheads together. “You're quite confident."

"I don't _\--ah,_ think it's unearned." Brienne moves her hips in the way she denied herself before, and Jaime loses his words. “Do you want me to beg, Brienne?”

Brienne presses his hands into the pillow and tightens her thighs around him; Jaime groans from the pressure. “Only a little, and never in earnest.”

Jaime gives her the same slightly intoxicated smile as always before surging forward to catch her lips. Brienne returns the kiss, and an encouraging groan rises up from Jaime’s throat when her tongue brushes his. She rolls her hips in a steady motion, the rising and falling of the tide, bringing Jaime out with her. Jaime’s pleasure mirrors her own, the heat of it spreading out from where they’re joined until everything is tingling from the energy of it.

The more fervent her movements, the more relaxed Jaime goes beneath her, until his vice-like grip on her fingers slackens. Their kiss absorbs the pleased noises Jaime keeps making, but when Brienne ramps up the speed and feels like fireworks are being launched inside her, Jaime cries out.

Brienne breaks the kiss and looks down at Jaime. His eyes are all pupils, and he’s looking up at her with a dizzy, wondrous expression that makes Brienne blush from the sheer adoration contained in it. It’s not an affectation, either, because Brienne can _feel_ it. 

She expects Jaime to speak, but instead he raises his head to catch her nipple between his lips, biting at it gently. It sends a line of pleasure straight to Brienne’s cunt, made worse when he follows by sucking and lapping at it. Before switching to her other breast, Jaime blows lightly on her dampened skin, making her tremble.

“Brienne,” he whispers, “may I have _one_ of my hands back?”

“Of course.” Brienne squeezes Jaime’s fingers and brings his hand close to kiss his knuckles.

Jaime slides his newly-freed hand over her stomach to find her clit. He rubs his nose against the slight valley between her breasts, then pulls her nipple into his mouth again. The motion of Jaime’s thumb is swift and decisive, brushing against his cock where they’re joined and sliding over her clit. The forcefulness is a sharp contrast to the rest of Jaime’s languid posture, but he’s always been able to muster himself when it matters.

Her orgasm hits Brienne so hard her stomach drops, and she collapses forward onto Jaime while she shakes from the intensity of it. Her forehead ends up smashed into the textured couch pillow beside Jaime’s head. Jaime keeps touching her clit, slower now, and manages to lever a few erratic thrusts of his own. Brienne’s cunt clenches around him, and Jaime comes, tightening his grip on her hand and shouting her name.

The surge of energy feels _amazing,_ but Jaime embracing her is even better. Brienne lets go of his hand and wedges herself between Jaime and the back of the couch, pulling him close.

“Brienne,” he sounds breathless, “I’m _awake.”_

She starts giggling, a strange relief rushing through her. “You _are.”_

“This opens up _so_ many possibilities.” Jaime still sounds groggy and a bit wiped, but Brienne’s amazed at the chance to talk with him after. “Can I tell you the last thought I’ve been having lately before I zonk out?”

“S-Sure.”

Jaime burrows deeper into her arms, “It’s that I love you.”

* * *

Brienne holds Jaime to her and doesn’t so much as breathe.

They pass a long, _long_ time in silence. Brienne’s heart hammers away; Jaime can probably hear it where his ear is pressed against her chest. As a child on Tarth, she used to hold seashells to her ear and listen to the ocean. _What is Jaime hearing now?_ Her racing heart, the fact that the silence feels like it’s gone on for an entire day, yet Brienne can’t make her mouth form words.

She doesn’t know what to do with Jaime’s admission, just like she doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he’s awake in her arms. It shifts something in their dynamic, that he’s been thinking about _love,_ but unable to say it because of the effect Brienne has on him. Her mind spirals into a bit of a panic, and it makes her squeeze Jaime even tighter.

“Brienne?” He looks up at her, only a bit unfocused. “You went _really_ quiet.”

“I--I know,” she stammers, “I’m sorry, I just--we should clean up. Your couch--”

“Fuck my couch, Brienne.”

“Jaime--”

“You clean when you’re nervous. Have I ever told you how charming it was that you took me home that first night and were worried about your desk?”

Brienne smacks Jaime lightly on the shoulder, “I’d just told you my deepest secret. I wanted to make a good impression.”

Jaime laughs, “You _did._ You do. I...I’m still a little drunk on you, but I meant what I said before. I’m sure you’re afraid I’m under the influence.”

“I don’t…” She takes another deep breath, “I don’t _give_ you feelings.”

“You only make them better,” Jaime finishes. Then, he glances up at her again, “I don’t need an answer. I just wanted to tell you before I lost my nerve.”

“Let me go to the bathroom,” Brienne blurts.

Jaime smiles softly when he releases her, politely handing her an overzealous handful of tissues. Arthur, asleep on the bed, screeches when Brienne flips on the light and dashes to the bathroom. When she’s done, Brienne leans against the door and presses her hand to her chest, willing her heart to calm. _Love._

It felt _right._ It could be easy, even though the feeling snuck up on her. Margaery would laugh at her.

“I’m still here,” Jaime says when she returns, “I tried to stand, but that didn’t work so well.”

“Noodle legs,” Brienne replies, “So, the potion doesn’t prevent everything.”

She sits on the edge of the couch and takes Jaime’s face between her hands. As always, his attention on her is rapt. “I love you, too.”

He smirks, “I know you do.”

“Cocky.”

“What else could it mean that you take care of me when I’m so annoying?”

“Keeping you content because I need you.”

“That’s not you,” Jaime shakes his head, “Can’t we just be happy?”

Brienne leans in to kiss Jaime. “I’m happy,” she says, “and I’m glad the potions work.”

“It’ll be good, sometimes, not to pass out.” Jaime slides his arms around Brienne’s neck, “but not always. I’d miss our routine too much.”

Brienne laughs, feeling exponentially lighter. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“Yes.”

“Can you walk?”

“Undecided.” Jaime bats his eyes at her, “Will you carry me?”

 _“Ugh,_ fine.”

Jaime isn't terribly heavy, but he’s much too tall for a piggyback ride, and his knees bang against the bedroom door frame. Arthur looks supremely offended when Brienne nearly drops Jaime on top of him on the blankets.

“We made it,” Jaime grins salaciously, “Tyrion learned the hard way, but do you want to test the limits of the famed Lannister virility again?”

Brienne really, _really_ can’t refuse an offer like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts! I will definitely be visiting this universe again in the future.


End file.
